


and after all of the whistle blows

by its_nochillforov



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Background JJBella, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, background saramila (is that the right ship name?), the underground fight league au that nobody wanted, will add more tags later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-11-28 17:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11422323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_nochillforov/pseuds/its_nochillforov
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri, an engineering major studying in Detroit, finds himself stuck in a situation involving slightly illegal underground fighting leagues and an angry ballet student. Viktor Nikiforov, defending champion, finds himself in a tangle of half truths and loose ends.Or,A fight club au (not really related to the book or movie, the term "fight club" is just useful) involving Yuuri and Viktor and some problems.





	1. in the cards

It starts on a rainy Monday night, three blocks from Yuuri’s dance studio. He has his bag held over his head in an effort to stave off the majority of the rain, but it isn’t very useful.

His socks are soaked through his shoes, his bangs are plastered right to his forehead, and the droplets on his glasses dot his vision to the extent that he’s considering windshield wipers, but an extra small version, so he can see where he’s going.

Over the din of rain falling into puddles on the pavement, two voices float into earshot; it takes a moment for Yuuri’s mind to switch to English, because he’s only been in Detroit for five months thank you very much, but once he’s tuned in, he almost walks into a street lamp in shock.

“ – two grand. That’s a lot of money.”

“I know what the prize money is, idiot. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to be a part of this.”

“You can’t just quit. It doesn’t work like that.”

Yuuri’s sopping tennis shoes find a particularly deep puddle on the sidewalk. The resulting splash of dirty water is enough to make him hiss for the sake of his joggers, but he realizes almost immediately that making sound is an extremely stupid thing to do.

The voices stop abruptly. 

Then, “Who’s there?”

From whatever dark corner they had been hiding in, two shaky figures emerge, and if Yuuri’s faulty depth perception is to be trusted, they’re alarmingly close.

Startled, Yuuri takes a couple steps back, overbalances, and almost falls flat on his back. He draws his dance bag down, tighter, close to his chest. Should he keep walking? No, they might follow him.

The figures come closer still, and Yuuri can see they’re both men. Or boys, because they hardly look like men, still a little lanky from growth spurts, but definitely with at least six inches on Yuuri, which is definitely a problem.

(Not that Yuuri would attempt to fight them, he’s a dancer with anxiety and homework, he can’t afford to fight anyone at the moment.)

“You. How much did you hear?”

Yuuri’s eyes go wide. They want to talk to him? “N – not much. Nothing.”

The one on the right huffs and fists his hand in his hair. “This is why we don’t have these conversations outside.” 

The one to the left looks a little smaller. Yuuri can’t see much of their faces, given that his wet glasses allow him the clarity of looking through a fishbowl, but he sees enough to see that the boy’s face is scrunched up in what’s probably worry. “I’m sorry,” he begins, but the other one cuts him off.

“No. You’re not going to do it, you’re going to have to live with it. But…” he trails off, and Yuuri gets the prickling sensation that he’s being scrutinized, and he shuffles uncomfortably. Is it safe for him to turn and run yet? “But I’ll see what I can do with this one.”

Yuuri jerks backwards. “Me?” Are they talking about him? He doesn’t know them. They can’t be talking about him.

“Yeah, you,” he snaps. Okay, then. Yuuri squints. Maybe he knows him. “Name’s Leroy.” With a flourish, he whips out a little white card and extends it to Yuuri, fast enough that it has Yuuri recoiling. When Yuuri doesn’t take the card, he sighs and wiggles it. “If you don’t take the card, it’s going to get soaked.”

Hesitantly, Yuuri snatches it from him. It’s a plain white business card, with nothing but a lazy scrawled phone number on one side. Yuuri tucks it into his pocket.

“If you’re looking to make a little extra cash, call me. It seems we have an opening,” he drawls, giving a nasty side-eye to the boy next to him, and snaps back to Yuuri with a grin slashed across his face. “And I should give you a warning. You talk, and we’ll know.”

It’s definitely a threat. Talk about what? Yuuri’s too lost to comprehend any of it.. All he wants to do is go back to his cramped little dorm and take a shower (standing in the rain doesn’t count) and say hi to Phichit and immediately fall asleep.

Yuuri nods. Maybe if he nods enough, they’ll think he gets the point and leave him alone.

Leroy’s smile slips. He turns back to the other kid, grabs him by the shoulder, and hauls him away, down the sidewalk. Yuuri stands for another second, letting the rain turn his glasses into a dripping mess, before he attains a morsel of sense and spins on a wobbly heel to resume his path.

Alright, then.

 

\--

 

It’s a week after that cryptic encounter that Yuuri finds the card again. He’s throwing his clothes into a basket to take down to the laundry room when he feels something in the pocket of one of his joggers, and curiosity piqued, pulls it out to check.

The ink has bled a little, numbers cloudy, but it’s clear enough to read. If you’re looking to make a little extra cash…

No. That’s stupid. He won’t. That’s how people get killed.

But the second boy looked fine. He didn’t look very dead.

And he’d mentioned something about extra space. It sounded like they were building a team.

Yuuri shakes his head. He’s being so, so stupid. His parents raised him better than this. Don’t talk to strangers, well, he’d already broken that rule. But don’t take candy from them? Yuuri drops the card, fingers flying like he’s been burned. In this situation, the card is definitely the candy. 

He’s in the middle of staring intently at the card on his bed, pretending like he’s not, when the door to the room swings open. Yuuri jumps about a foot and a half into the air, hands gripped so tight around the laundry basket it’s possible his fingers might just break off if they were pulled hard enough.

Phichit grins. “Hey, Yuuri. Oh, you’re going to the laundry?” He launches himself onto his bed, phone already out, tapping at something. He looks up at Yuuri, lower lip pushed into a pout. “Will you take mine, too? Pleeease?” He wheedles.

Yuuri smiles back. It’s automatic. He can’t help it. “What, you can’t do it yourself?”

Phichit throws a pencil at him. It’s his victory throw, because he knows he’s won. “There’s not too much. You can throw it in with yours. I think we’ll be able to tell them apart,” he winks. 

They’ll definitely be able to tell them apart, but only because all of Phichit’s clothes are a size smaller than Yuuri’s and they have more leather on them. (Way more leather.)

Yuuri rolls his eyes and heaves up the basket, weaving through the mess of a floor to dump Phichit’s clothes in with Yuuri’s, card entirely forgotten.

“Yeah, okay, sure. You’d better have dinner for me when I get back.”

Phichit waves it off. “Sure, sure. Of course.”

 

\--

 

Viktor’s in the midst of checking his mail (read: throwing different envelopes in different directions, one of which is the trash can) when there’s a sharp rap on the door. His chin jerks up and he squints at the door as if he can see through it.

It comes again. This time, he moves to check who it is.

A familiar colorful face glares back at him through the peephole and slowly, Viktor unlocks the door, blocking the rest of his apartment from view with his body.

Georgi rolls his eyes. He seems to do that a lot. “Don’t you worry your pretty head, Vitya, Yakov wanted you up to date. That’s all.”

“And you had to come to me for that? At -” Viktor turns to check the clock on the opposite wall, “- ten thirty p.m.?”

Georgi shrugs, but the motion is muffled by the large dark hoodie he’s got pulled around him. He doesn’t seem to get that it doesn’t make him any less conspicuous. Viktor’s tried to tell him that the best disguise is no disguise, but Georgi really, really enjoys his dramatics.

“You might want to know I was taking a little tour downtown last night and I heard the King -” he spits out the word with a jeer, “ - having a little trouble with one of his prelims. Yakov wants you looking to see if you can find out who the replacement is going to be.”

Viktor tilts his head in acknowledgement. “Understood. Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Georgi confirms. He takes a step back and turns to head back down the stairs from Viktor’s flat.

“And you couldn’t have just texted about this?” Viktor calls after him.

Georgi snorts. “Yeah, right. Yakov doesn’t know how to use anything built after 1990, and if he doesn’t know it, he doesn’t trust it. He insisted.” That most definitely means that he raised his voice to otherwise unattainable decibel levels, and Georgi was not left with much of a choice. Viktor understands that part.

When he can’t see Georgi’s faded black hoodie anymore, Viktor shuts the door, perhaps with more force than necessary. The empty apartment seems to grow a little more silent as he stares at the clock on the wall.

What choice does he have? All Viktor’s ever done is follow orders, anyway.

 

\--

 

Yuuri has his worn pair of pointe shoes resting on his bed, and he’s slouched in his little desk chair, staring at them. Or he’s bent into whatever his form of slouching is, because if he tries to hunch his shoulders he hears Minako’s voice echoing inside his head and it forces him to sit straighter, so at least there’s that.

But the shoes. They’re at the point (haha, point) where they look like they’re being held together by sheer force of will. And that’s not good.

To put it lightly, pointe shoes are not cheap. And the more Yuuri dances, the faster they wear out, and then he has to get more, and that’s… that’s the problem, right there. 

And with the secondhand textbooks stacked on his desk and the partially-done homework scattered on his desk and the urging need to run back to the studio for some peace of mind, well, it’s starting to make that corner of his mind flare back to life. That corner that wants to find the little card with the number on it.

If you’re looking to make a little extra cash…

Yeah. He kind of is. 

But it’s a bad idea. He knows it’s a bad idea, he knows it’s a bad idea to even be considering it, that’s how bad it is. He’s basically breaking every rule he knows. He’s going to get scammed, he’s going to get punched, he’s going to get sucked into something bad, bad, bad.

But he needs to dance, too. Needs to.

The card is under his bed. He knows where it is. He lets his eyes wander to rest on where he knows it is, but he can’t see it, his bag is in the way. It’s right there.

The door creaks open, and it startles Yuuri so hard that he nearly falls out of his chair.

Phichit prances inside. “Well, hello, Yuuri. I thought you’d be off at the studio by now?” He drops his bag onto his bed and cocks his head to the side, watching Yuuri expectantly.

Yuuri shrugs. Gestures vaguely to the shoes on his bed. For some reason, having to say any of it out loud makes it very difficult to speak, like his throat is betraying him.

Phichit’s eyes alight on the shoes, evidently worn to even the least knowledgeable stranger, and much more so to Phichit, who’s spent the last three years learning Yuuri’s world. The realization hits, and Phichit’s would-be smile breaks.

“Oh, Yuuri.” 

And now Phichit’s got his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders, letting Yuuri rest his head on Phichit’s neck, mumbling something in Thai that Yuuri doesn’t understand but pretends to, because it makes him feel a little better. Slightly, but better.

“You know the studio would give you another class if you asked. And you know the rink would let you teach, too. And you know -” Phichit puts a hand on his cheek, turns his head so he’s looking right into the other boy’s eyes, impossible to turn away and mask himself, “- you know that you have so many people with you, right? You know I love you?”

Yuuri takes a deep breath. It’s fine. It’s okay.

Phichit must know what he’s thinking. It’s like Phichit has superpowers, Yuuri thinks, because he always seems to know. “There’s something else on your mind. Can you tell me what it is?”

Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together. He stares hard at a spot on Phichit’s nose (he has a little beauty spot there, and it’s kind of adorable).

Phichit sets himself carefully down on Yuuri’s bed, crosses his legs at the ankles, and rests his weight behind him on his palms. His lips quirk a little, as if to say, ‘I’ll wait.’

Yuuri sighs. He drops to his knees without explanation, and crawls a little awkwardly to his bag, pushing it aside and reaching for the card underneath his bed. He’s twisted at an uncomfortable angle as he pushes his shoulder further under to reach wherever the card’s run off to, and his eyes meet Phichit’s upside down, and Yuuri pretends he doesn’t see the slightly judgemental look he’s being given.

Victory. He finds the card.

He places it gingerly on Phichit’s leg, and Phichit examines it slowly, flipping it between his fingers. He looks from it to Yuuri, who’s now sitting on his ankles, patiently awaiting Phichit’s judgement.

“This is… what is this?”

“So, um. Monday night, I was - was it Monday? Yeah, I think it was Monday. So Monday night, I was walking back from the studio, because I always do that, but it was raining a lot and I overheard these two people talking about something and I wasn’t listening, I really wasn’t, but I think they thought I was -”

“Yuuri.” Phichit looks like he’s trying not to smile. “What is this?”

Yuuri clamps his jaw shut. “Um.” A pause. “One of the guys handed it to me and said to call if I ever wanted to make some extra money.”

Phichit just stares at him. His fingers have gone slack, and the card is resting somewhere on Yuuri’s bed. “You -”

“I know! I have no idea who it is, or what he means, or what he wants, but -”

“This is the shadiest thing I’ve ever seen. Why haven’t you already thrown this away?”

Yuuri picks at the hem of his fraying henley. “It might work.”

“No, no way! I know you know this is ridiculous. I don’t have to explain all the ways this could go wrong.”

No, he didn’t have to. Yuuri’s overactive imagination tends to take care of all the worst-case scenarios. But additionally, Yuuri’s overactive imagination also tends to take care of all the worst-case scenarios if he doesn’t do it, so there’s that, too.

“There are so many other options. You don’t even know if this will work. A guy hands you a card with a phone number on it. He could be a serial killer, for all we know.”

“If he were a serial killer, I’d be dead by now,” Yuuri points out helpfully, and Phichit’s eyes narrow.

“Mm, no, not the point. I think you should forget about this,” he waves the card.

Yuuri grimaces. The faded black scrawl on the card catches his eye, and he can’t look away from it. What if he’s throwing away a perfectly good chance to do something that could help him? He can’t ask his parents to pay for everything, and his scholarship only covers so much. Teaching at the studio can’t tide him over, not when he has classes to complete, too.

He doesn’t want it to come back to haunt him later. 

“How about this,” he starts, slowly, and bless him, Phichit actually looks like he’s really listening even though he knows it’s going to be a bad idea, “I’ll call that number right now -”

“Absolutely not -”

“- and I’ll put it on speaker, and you sit here and listen -”

“No way -”

“- and if you still think it’s a terrible idea, I’ll throw the card away.”

Phichit frowns. “No.”

“Please,” Yuuri wheedles. “Please, Phichit, please? What if it works?”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“But what if it works?”

Phichit looks absolutely torn. Yuuri’s using the eyes, the puppy eyes, the ones that work about eighty percent of the time, and they’re working now. Success.

“Fine,” Phichit caves. “Do it. Right now. I’m listening.” He throws the card at Yuuri. It hits him on the nose.

“Yes! Thank you!” Yuuri’s phone manifests itself into his hand and he pulls up the phone app, typing in the number, and presses the speakerphone button as soon as the option makes itself available.

He looks up at Phichit. He mimes blowing a kiss, and Phichit grins.

Three rings in, someone picks up. For some reason, Yuuri’s heart begins to beat a little faster. He orders it to slow back down.

“Sara Crispino, who am I speaking with?”

Yuuri freezes. He hadn’t thought this far in. Crap. Does he gives his real name? Or does he make one up?

Phichit urges him to say something. Go on.

“Yuuri,” he blurts.

“Just Yuuri? Hello, Yuuri. How can I help you?” She sounds amused. At least she doesn’t sound upset, Yuuri thinks, because upset is worse than amused by about fifteen miles.

“I - um,” he stumbles. “I met someone a few days ago. Name was Leroy?”

There’s a sharp breath. “Leroy? Is that where you got this number?”

“Yeah. Yes.” He looks up at Phichit, who gives him a thumbs up. 

“Well, Yuuri, I’m glad you decided to call. Would you like to meet sometime soon to go over the details of the arrangement?”

Phichit snickers. Yuuri does not know what part of what she said is so funny. 

“Arrangement?”

“Oh dear, didn’t he say anything when you met him?”

“I’m… afraid I have no idea. He just said to call if I was interested.”

“That’s a start. We’re in need of a quick replacement for one of our participants, and I think JJ - that’s Leroy - thought you would be a good fit. Would you like to come by tomorrow night so I can show you how it works?”

Ask her what it is, Phichit mouths at him. 

“What exactly is ‘it’?” Yuuri asks.

“It’s… in layman’s terms, Yuuri, it’s a fight club.”

Yuuri’s face has never gone sheet-white so fast as it does now.

Phichit’s jaw drops open.

“Tomorrow night, then? I’ll give you the address.”

Meekly, because he doesn’t know what else to do, Yuuri says, “Okay.”

 

\--

 

Viktor drives like a wanted man.

This is something Yuri likes to say a lot, most often as he’s sitting in the passenger seat, clutching at his seatbelt and the dashboard with white knuckles. This is one of those instances.

“I’m honestly surprised you haven’t died yet,” Yuri gripes. Viktor’s smile grows a little, and he throws the car into another other lane as he realizes he’s got take the next right turn.

“If I didn’t drive like this, kitten, you’d never get to class on time. Be happy.”

Yuri growls at the nickname. 

Viktor hums. “Which is it today? Home, or training?”

“Training,” Yuri says shortly.

Viktor slides his eyes over to Yuri, whose gaze is firmly fixed on the road ahead in a glare. “Don’t you have schoolwork to do, kitten?”

“Don’t you have a job, old man?” Yuri gripes.

“Fair enough,” Viktor lifts a shoulder, before promptly remember his turn signal and flicking it on, “but you know Yakov won’t let you back in the ring if your midterm grades drop.”

“I can take care of my own grades.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “And Yakov wouldn’t take me out. I’m his secret weapon.”

Viktor zips into the parking lot and shuts the ignition off. “Speaking of secrets,” he begins, “do you know what’s happening in the north? Georgi came to me yesterday. Apparently, they lost a player. And they’re looking for a replacement.”

Yuri frowns, but he sits up a little straighter. He preens at being addressed with issues like an adult. “A replacement? So late? What happened, did the player die?”

“Quit.”

“No way. They let people do that? Cialdini really has gone soft.”

Viktor sighs. “It’s no fun if they lose a player. Yakov wants to find out who the replacement is before the rounds begin next month.”

Yuri huffs. “Does he think we’re psychic or something? There are, like, a million people in this stupid city. No way we can find one guy. And he won’t even be good, if he’s starting so late.”

“Keep your eyes open anyway.”


	2. sagittarius

Eight months. Yuuri’s time is split between the gym and the studio, and it’s not entirely awful.

Eight months. Yuuri wraps his hands, precise and adjusted, just tight enough so he can feel it. So his wrists won’t break on impact.

Eight months. Yuuri’s facing the ropes, or more accurately, he’s facing Phichit, who’s on the other side. Phichit gives him a wide grin and two thumbs up.  _ Go get him _ , he mouths over the din of the crowd.

Weakly, Yuuri smiles back. He’s never been very good before a performance, and a match isn’t too different. 

He turns to face his opponent. The man is taller than Yuuri, more heavily built. That’s fine. His hair is shaved close to his scalp, and there’s a nasty grimace on his face, like he’s trying to tell Yuuri something using nothing but his eyebrows. That’s also fine. Doesn’t matter.

Yuuri resists the urge to crack his knuckles. It’s a nervous habit. It also makes him look like he’s raring for a fight, which he’d rather avoid, despite his current situation.

Isabella waits for the two men to reach the center of the ring, casually resting her elbows on the ropes. Slowly, the other man comes forward, and Yuuri mimics him. Yuuri doesn’t let his gaze flicker, not even for a second; partially because he’s too stricken to look around, but also partially because it’s supposedly an intimidation tactic.

How his slight form, with his dancer’s lines and unfocused eyes (wearing contacts during a match would be like asking to go blind), would ever intimidate someone, that’s beyond him.

Isabella steps between the men, puts her hand up to signal the first round, and instructs the men to shake hands. Reluctantly, they clasp hands. Yuuri feels like maybe his hand’s going to lose circulation.

Isabella hops out of the ring, and lets loose a loud whistle. Yuuri’s never going to get used to hearing that deafening thing. How she makes that kind of sound with nothing but her mouth is not something he will understand.

But then he can’t think about that any more, because there’s a man watching him like a predator, and when he lunges, all Yuuri can think is  _ better start concentrating real soon _ .

Yuuri hops out of the way. The man, whose name Yuuri knows, he knows it, he just doesn’t remember, what is it - 

Another punch, toward his ribs, followed by a kick to the same spot, but all Yuuri has to do is dart to the side -

The man’s persistent. Yuuri remembers getting a brief run-down on him, how Sara had looked at him and said with ease and confidence that she knew Yuuri could win. Yuuri had squinted at her, searching for signs of illness.

How, he had asked, because the man is twice his weight, and Yuuri’s still not sure why Sara ever thought letting a ballet dancer into the league was a good idea, and Sara had shrugged and said that Yuuri could outlast him for days, and that was all he needed.

Outlast. That’s been Yuuri’s tactic for so long, he’s not sure what else to do.

He dodges, he ducks and rolls, he hops back and forth, and at one point he manages to get a clean hit to the man’s knee, and then his hip, which leaves him hissing. Yuuri has to fight back the urge to smile.

He can feel the agitation, now, because his opponent hasn’t managed to land a proper hit in ninety seconds, and it’s pissing him off. That part’s easy, though, because Yuuri’s always been used to twisting himself into shapes, it’s just that now he has to make sure those shapes fit away from his opponent’s flying limbs.

Ten seconds left.

And when the man throws himself at Yuuri’s shoulder, trying to put him down with fervor, Yuuri steps aside and slams his elbows down on his back, bringing his knee up to the man’s chest at the same time. He lets out a satisfying grunt and drops to his hands and knees before scrambling back up.

Now’s his time.

Yuuri dances to the side and throws a leg out to catch the man’s knee, then aims at the other one with his other leg. The man’s legs buckle and he falls like he doesn’t have a good eighty pounds on Yuuri.

The only cheers he can hear are Phichit’s and Sara’s. Do the other ones really matter?

He drops his weight across the man’s thighs and presses a foot to his neck; the man struggles under him, but stubbornly, Yuuri manages to hold him down until he hears Isabella’s whistle again, and the sound is like the sweetest song to his ears.

Yuuri’s grip goes slack, and the man underneath him growls and surges upward, and Yuuri topples like a Jenga tower.

He lies there, staring up at the ceiling, heaving chest and tired limbs until Isabella’s hand pulls him back upright. She smiles at him. “Congrats, hotshot. Another one under your belt.”

Yuuri shrugs and gets to his feet, trying his hardest not to look at his opponent, because he can feel the glare digging into his head, and he doesn’t want to face it, not really.

Isabella lifts his arm up and announces his victory. There is cheering and there is jeering. There is money exchanged. Yuuri’s eyes glaze over as he searches the crowd. He doesn’t really know what he’s looking for, but he’s looking.

Phichit waves at him, grin splitting his face, and Yuuri feels a matching one break out over his face. Yeah. He’s allowed to be glad, no? 

When he’s showered and changed, dressed in loose sweatpants and an old hoodie to match, he finds Phichit waiting for him by the door.

His surprise must show on his face, because Phichit snickers. “What, you thought I was just going to go home? I can’t believe you haven’t let me come to your matches before, Yuuri. That was  _ amazing _ .”

Yuuri feels a smile forming on his lips. “You liked it, huh?”

“Of course! You totally destroyed him, and it only took you, like, five seconds. I didn’t know you could do that.”

Yuuri shrugs, and heaves his bag over his shoulder. The strap digs into a bruise on his shoulder, and he’s not even sure where it’s from. He should know, shouldn’t he? “Sara’s the genius. The things she taught me to do, Phichit, she could kill a man with her bare hands. She’s terrifying. I’m just glad she’s on my side.”

Phichit unlocks the door to their flat and the door swings open with a creak. “Tell me something. Not that I don’t love how good at this you are - because I do - but it’s almost been a year, Yuuri. Are you going to keep at this?”

“Eight months,” Yuuri says absently, dropping his bag by the counter.

“Hm?”

“I don’t know,” he clarifies, because he doesn’t. He’s been avoiding thinking about it, if he’s being honest with himself. “I have no idea.” He rolls his shoulders, grimacing when the ache makes itself apparent, and Phichit clucks disapprovingly.

“You’re hurt, aren’t you? You’d always be sore all over after you got back from the studio, and now it’s twice as bad, with the training you do.”

Yuuri levels him with a stare. “You’re going to talk to me about this? Phichit, do you even recognize how much time you spend at the rink?”

Phichit waves away his concern. “That’s not the point. The point is that you should take some time and consider, don’t you think?”

Yuuri purses his lips. Drops onto the couch, stretching his legs out over the armrest and pillowing his head on his arm. “I don’t know.” He picks at a fraying seam, and then stops himself, because it’s a nervous habit and someday their couch is going to fall apart because of it, and he doesn’t need that. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

His gaze lands on his dance bag, the gear he knows is nestled neatly inside, the pointe shoes that he bought two weeks ago, the ones he’ll never have to worry about again. “And I’ve even gotten to send money back to my parents. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to do that, you know?

Phichit settles beside him on the couch, pressing a Ziploc of ice to his shoulder, and Yuuri gives a thankful sigh in return. “I understand, Yuuri,” he says. His voice is softer. “But just make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

“You’ve said that before,” Yuuri points out, and it’s then that he realizes he’s really tired, his body aches, and he’s ready to pass out immediately. He yawns.

“I know.” Phichit sounds tired now, too. That’s fine. They can both sleep. It’s a Saturday anyway. “I just wish you’d actually listen.”

“I am listening,” Yuuri says, or he wants to say it, but he’s not sure if he actually gets the words out before he falls into unconsciousness, limbs settling. Phichit rubs his back because he’s a good friend.

Phichit snorts. Yuuri doesn’t hear it. “Figures. Says he’s fine and passes out before nine o’clock.” Phichit pats his back fondly.

  
  


\--

  
  


Yuuri’s stretching at the barre, one leg propped up on the wood, when he hears a throat clearing behind him, far too close for comfort. He panics, tries to turn, forgets his leg is still on the barre, and ends up nearly falling on his behind in the most graceful way.

He steadies himself with a pounding heart, because he’s just had a near-death experience and he’s allowed to panic, but his pulse nearly flatlines when he sees who he’s standing in front of.

“M - Madam Lilia. Hello - o.” Why does he sound like he’s hiccupping?

The woman herself, towering over Yuuri with a permanent frown etched into her face, hums in response. “Katsuki.” Even her voice sounds like a sniper rifle, utterly deadly, and Yuuri can feel that sniper rifle all the way to his bones.

Yuuri lets out a sound that might sound like a whimper, but he’s not really sure. He can’t hear much beyond the sound of his shame at the tangle that she must have just witnessed.

Nonetheless, she deigns to speak to him. Her eyes drill holes into his. “Your recommendation from Okukawa Minako was satisfactory,” she begins, and he can now feel his fingers, the numbness is beginning to recede, she’s not saying anything awful, “but I am inclined to see for myself what your skills comprise.”

Expectantly, she crosses her arms, and gestures to the floor. It’s empty, the small number of dancers who had arrived early having chosen to warm up on their own along the barres on the wall.

One of the smaller boys seems particularly furious, glaring like Yuuri had personally kicked his cat or something.

Yuuri shakes off his gaze, and with all the nervous energy in his veins, propels himself toward the center of the floor. “What - what would you like me to do?”

She waves a hand, dismissing his concern. “Just do a sequence from your last performance. That should be good.”

Yuuri shuffles his feet. “Oh. Okay.” Hesitantly, he settles into the beginning pose for one of his solos in the last exhibition he did with his previous company, and sends a prayer up to any gods who might be listening that he doesn’t embarrass himself in front of Madam Lilia Baranovskaya, of all people.

Throughout his sequence, he can feel Madam Lilia’s eyes like a thin film over his skin, inspecting, scrutinizing. He fumbles one of the leaps - it was inevitable, of course it was, but he could have done without it - and by the time he’s settled into his finishing pose, he’s breathing hard. It’s the only sound he can hear.

Madam Lilia gives a sharp clap of her hands, and the silence of the room devolves back into the quiet bustle of the other dancers, whose stillness Yuuri hadn’t noticed. “Good,” she says curtly, and Yuuri feels like he might pass out because that kind of praise - “that was acceptable. I can work with that.”

Yuuri resists the urge to collapse at her feet to show his thanks. He settles for a nod and a small bow. Still out of breath, he says, “Thank you, Madam Lilia. I’ll strive to meet your expectations.”

She lingers for half a moment before him, still watching (always watching), before sharply turning on her heel to harass one of the other dancers.

As soon as she turns away from him, Yuuri deflates, a hand on his chest. Existing within Madam Lilia’s vicinity is fully exhausting.

“Hey, loser,” a growl from his right, and Yuuri wearily turns to come face to face with the angry blond from before, “we can’t have two Yuris in this company.”

His eyes are narrowed. Yuuri takes a slow step back, perhaps to put him out of arm’s length in case the boy decides to throw a punch, and perhaps not. 

“Hello,” Yuuri begins. He doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

“No. Why’d you switch?”

Yuuri balks at the bluntness. And maybe also at the fury. “I - Madam Lilia is the most respected dancer for hundreds of miles. She offered me a position, so I took it.” Lilia Baranovskaya, former prima ballerina of the Bolshoi ballet, in Detroit for the foreseeable future? It was an opportunity that Yuuri would do anything to seize.

“She just  _ offered _ you a position?” He sounds affronted. If he had feathers, Yuuri thinks, they would be ruffled.

“Well, my previous sensei recommended me, and Madam Lilia must have taken the chance - ”

“Lilia doesn’t take chances,” the blond throws his shoulders back, “but what I said before still stands. You’re Yuri,” he pokes at Yuuri’s chest, and then back to himself, “and I’m Yuri. There can only be one.” He harrumphs, sticks his nose in the air, and storms off. 

Confused, Yuuri stares at his retreating back for another moment before shaking himself back to the task at hand.

Yuuri grips the barre again and settles his ankle against it. The bruise on his shoulder hasn’t faded, and if anything it’s gotten worse, which he’s painfully reminded of when he pulls his arm over his head in a stretch.

Phichit had said to take some time. To consider if he really needed to continue his… what is it now, three commitments? His schooling, and dancing, and now all the time he spends at the ring, to top it all off.

Yuri, the smaller, angier Yuri, shouts something across the floor, and thankfully it’s not directed at Yuuri.

It’s fine. Yuuri needs this, he does; the costs of training under Lilia Baranovskaya are nothing to scoff at, and what he earns from teaching the juniors’ ballet lessons aren’t going to add up to enough. He needs the job with the league, he does.

He needs it. He has it. He’s going to keep it. Whatever it takes.

  
  


\--

  
  


“Eros? What kind of name is that?”

“At least he has a name now,” Viktor retorts, idly flipping channels. “He was just ‘replacement’ before.”

Yuri shuts off his phone and tucks it under his thigh, picking up Viktor’s from where it rests on the coffee table. He unlocks it with the passcode that he’s seen Viktor use so many times, because he’s a dumbass who doesn’t use touch ID as much as he should.

“Mila texted,” he informs Viktor, “she wants to know something about - about your next match?” Confused, he scrolls higher in the conversation. His confusion shifts almost immediately to suspicion. “What is this? What are you doing?”

Viktor casts a sideways glance at him, but can’t be bothered to say anything before he returns his attention to the television, apparently. After a pause, he says, “Yakov wants to do something between the leagues.”

Yuri nearly leaps out of his chair. “What?” He screeches.

Viktor drops his head back against the couch, remote arm going slack against his side. “It hasn’t been done in years, apparently, but Yakov wants to prove something. I don’t know what he’s trying to do.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Yuri says, quieter but his voice still unnaturally high, “that’s  _ so _ ridiculous, and why hasn’t anybody mentioned it to me, how come you and Mila -”

Viktor shushes him with a hand on his mouth. Furious, Yuri licks his palm, and Viktor imitates Yuri’s screech from earlier, withdrawing his hand like he’s been shocked, wiping it on his shirt. 

Yuri glares at him.

Viktor sighs. “It must not be final yet if there’s no announcement.”

Yuri continues to glare.

“Fine! I don’t know anything else! It’s not even important. Tell me more about this Eros.”

“What do you mean, it’s not important? This is between leagues, Viktor, and the leagues don’t even  _ talk _ , forget about fighting. It’s, like, between mafias or something.”

Viktor waves it off. “What else do we know about Eros?”

Yuri lets out an exasperated groan. “That’s what you’re still hooked on?”

Viktor does not grace that with a response. Patiently (read: impatiently) he waits for Yuri’s elaboration on Eros.

Yuri caves. “He’s just someone they picked up off the street last-minute for qualifiers. He’s not even relevant.”

“That’s not true,” Viktor points at Yuri’s nose, or in the vicinity of it, because he’s still engrossed in the television and can’t be bothered to pinpoint Yuri’s face, “he’s got a name now, so he’s important.”

Yuri sighs. Long-suffering. Why he even chooses to spend time with this stupid old man is something he has given up on deciphering. “That’s all. He lost in the qualifiers immediately, obviously. But he’s almost decent, now.” It pains Yuri, almost physically, to admit this.

Viktor’s lips quirk. “Almost decent? That’s a generous compliment, kitten.”

“Shut up, old man. Just because he’s won a couple of low-scale matches doesn’t mean anything.”

“I’ll say,” Viktor muses. “Who’s he won against?”

“No one important,” Yuri dismisses. “All I know is he’s completely new to the fight scene.”

“No pictures? No one knows what he looks like, what he does?”

Yuri throws Viktor’s phone back at him. “He’s not a celebrity, idiot. I don’t know why you’re so interested. It’s gross.”

Viktor smiles. It doesn’t really look like a smile, more like he’s trying and failing to express some turbulent emotion. “Doesn’t hurt to scope the competition.”

Yuri scoffs. “Like you need to worry.”

With a shrug, Viktor drops the subject.

Yuri picks at his nails idly. “There was a new student today. With Lilia. His name is Yuri, too.”

Viktor hums. “You don’t usually mention anything about Lilia’s classes to me. Is he special?”

“No,” Yuri says quickly, defending his demeanor as a heartless bitch, “decent, at best. A little round, too. I don’t see why Lilia decided to take him on.”

“Maybe he’s better than you think,” Viktor says flippantly. “Lilia’s very strict. She wouldn’t take him if he wasn’t up to standards.”

“Whatever,” Yuri mumbles. 

Something about his tone pulls Viktor’s attention away from the riveting cooking show on the television, and he tilts his head to the side, watching Yuri’s face become subsequently redder.

“Yuri,” he drawls, “Yuri, does someone have a  _ crush _ ?”

“ _ No _ ,” Yuri screeches, “don't be  _ disgusting _ . That's  _ gross _ .”

“It’s perfectly all right, Yuri, don’t be so shy.” Viktor teases, because it’s not often he gets a beautiful chance to harass Yuri, and once he’s found one, he’s going to keep it. “Is he tall, handsome? What else?”

“I said  _ shut up _ ,” his voice goes shrill. Viktor, delighted, laughs, but it only leads to Yuri unleashing a barrage of pillows and magazines randomly snatched from the table.

When Yuri has run out of ammunition, he settles against the chair. The ever-present scowl on his face is directed at a spot right above Viktor’s left ear.

Viktor sighs. “Maybe I’ll come pick you up from Lilia’s a little early then.” A nasty side-eye toward the blond, who looks ready to blow a gasket, if he hasn’t already. “You know, so I can meet this handsome heartbreaker.”

Poor Yuri, who has never done anything to suffer so much torment in one night (that’s absolutely not true, it’s karmic retribution), stuffs his face into the arm of the chair, and wails.

  
  


\--

  
  


What’s different about this specific time that Yuuri is slumped across his bed, English Lit book splayed over his chest and unread, is that it is the third time it’s happened. Also, it’s a Friday night.

And because Phichit is a good friend, he nudges the book off Yuuri’s prone form, and lightly slaps Yuuri’s cheek to make sure he’s still alive.

Yuuri lets out a groan. Yes, that’s an indication of life, so Phichit is satisfied.

“Yuuri,” he whispers, “I have a solution.”

“No.”

“Solution! It means an end to your suffering.”

“I know what that means, Phi -” he’s cut off by clothing thrown on his face, and his sentence devolves into muffled sputtering. “What’s this for?”

Once Yuuri gets the clothing off his face, he squints at Phichit, who’s digging through Yuuri’s closet like he’s looking for the holy grail. “This is what you’re putting on, because we’re going down to the new place that opened on 35th.”

Yuuri examines the articles of clothing a little more closely now that he’s been informed of plans that he is not intent on carrying out. It’s a black T-shirt, one that’s too see-through for him to wear without nervously picking at it all night, which is exactly why it’s still got the tag on. 

Yuuri does not like where this is going. With every intent to shut down Phichit’s plans before they get too out of hand, he begins, “Uh-uh, I’m not leaving, I have homework -”

He is rudely interrupted when Phichit throws the pair of jeans he’s hidden inconspicuously in the back of his closet. One look in the dressing room had told him that these jeans would never see the light of day after Phichit’s not-so-subtle coercion into buying it.

“Put those on.” Phichit instructs. It’s the no-nonsense tone that he reserves for when his hamsters do something particularly upsetting. “And I’ll even do your hair, isn’t that great? Minimal effort on your part.” 

Happily, Phichit pats Yuuri’s leg on his way out the door. 

Yuuri drops his head back onto the covers and sighs. For a hot moment, he considers hiding underneath his bed until Phichit gives up, but then he considers the consequences that would involve Phichit’s sad face and the marathon of The King and the Skater, and thinks better of himself.

Twenty minutes later, the book is lying on his desk, he’s dressed in a sheer shirt and ridiculously tight jeans, Phichit has slicked his hair back and confiscated his glasses (and replaced them with contacts), and Yuuri’s shuffling his feet uncomfortably standing in front of a glowing neon sign.

It reads the obnoxious name of the club, but Phichit could evidently care less, as he delightedly drags Yuuri inside by the hand.

“This,” Phichit throws out an arm to indicate the glaring lights, thumping music, mass of bodies, and the stench of alcohol, “is how you spend a Friday night.”

Despite his best efforts, Yuuri can’t hate it. He really can’t. There’s something to be said for how much he hates social interaction, but he’s not being forced to talk to anyone, is he? All he has to do is throw alcohol down his throat and maybe ( _ maybe _ ) wordlessly join the writhing mess on the dance floor.

That’s fine with him.

He’s well through his first glass of gin (it might be a Friday night but his diet doesn’t take weekends; calories are a painful thing) when a shadow slides into his peripherals, obstructing his view of the DJ’s booth.

“Can I get you a drink?” A smooth voice, low with suggestion, and it’s practically a flipped switch in Yuuri’s mind.  _ Absolutely _ , he thinks. It doesn’t even matter what the person looks like. Friday night, too much procrastinated work, and a little bit of alcohol? This is exactly what he needs. He needs someone to buy him a drink.

Yuuri turns, objective set to respond with a cool and collected  _ of course _ , but as soon as he sees the man, all coherent thought drops out of his mind with no warning. He’s left blinking at him like the world’s largest goldfish.

The man smiles, a flash of blindingly white teeth and sinfully pink lips even in the muted dark of the club, and by some miracle, Yuuri’s thoughts arrange themselves into order again.

“Y- sure,” Yuuri manages to say, and he would kick himself for it if it wouldn’t make him seem even more gone than he already is.

The man turns and signals for the bartender, asks for another of what Yuuri’s having, and Yuuri takes the opportunity to blatantly ogle him. He’s allowed to, he defends to himself, because he’s had a long week, and also most of his glass of gin, and who’s going to stop him?

Nobody. 

The man turns back to him. He’s got cheekbones that look like they could cut a bitch, and his silver hair, for some reason, doesn’t make him look old. Instead, it’s weirdly hot. Yuuri continues his staring, down the smooth slope of his throat, past his shoulders, to where Yuuri’s field of vision ends. When he’s done, he returns his gaze to the stranger’s eyes.

Yuuri can’t see much, due to the abovementioned dim lighting, but he thinks they’re really, really blue.

“Are you going to say anything, gorgeous?” His accent, by the gods above, his accent is unbearably hot.

Yuuri finds himself smirking. He doesn’t know why. He hopes it doesn’t look like he’s being strangled on the inside, because that’s kind of what he feels like. “What would you like to hear?” Is he  _ flirting _ ? He didn’t know he was capable of that.

The man chuckles. “Your name, to begin with.”

“Yuuri,” he says, and he thinks he’s gone into autopilot now, his mind has shut down control because he’s wasting too much time staring and not enough time thinking, “and you?”

“Viktor.” He sticks out a hand in an oddly formal gesture given their current location, but Yuuri takes it anyway, because he’s not going to give up the chance to get those slender fingers on him, even if it’s just against his palm.

Sometimes, when he and Phichit come back from frat parties, and he wakes up with mascara smudged around his eyes, smelling like drink and hangover, with a phone number or four scrawled on various places on his body, Phichit laughs and calls him a slut. Yuuri, in those moments, is inclined to agree.

With the direction his thoughts are currently taking, he is also inclined in the moment to call himself a slut. He doesn’t really mind it. If it gets this beautiful specimen of man anywhere near him, he’ll slap the label on himself as fast as he can.

Viktor leans a little closer to him, so he can smell his smooth cologne, so he can see the red tint dusted across his cheeks. “Tell me something about yourself, Yuuri,” he says, and Yuuri short circuits. His name has never sounded so good to his ears.

“I - I’m an engineering major,” he blurts. Oops.

Viktor’s eyebrows quirk with surprise. His lips part a little, and that’s the only movement Yuuri really cares about. “You…” he pauses, “how old are you?”

Yuuri realizes what he’s said, and what it must seem like. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m twenty-one. Old enough.” He offers a smile to top it off, and Viktor relaxes.

“You had me worried,” he lifts his glass to his lips - when did he get his drink? - and takes a long sip, which more than encourages Yuuri to do the same, “but I suppose I should have guessed it anyway.”

Yuuri really couldn’t care less, not at the moment. He finishes his glass, and picks up the one that the bartender has slid to him, downing half of that as well. He’s going to regret it later, but he doesn’t regret it now. 

“Well, is there anything else you’d like to know? Or maybe you want to tell me something.”

Viktor swirls his drink around, gaze fixed on Yuuri’s which is chipping away at Yuuri’s self-control bit by bit. He doesn’t really mind it.

“One more thing I’d love to know, actually,” and the way he says it should be illegal because it sits in Yuuri’s blood something heavy, “are you lost? Heaven’s a long way from here.”

He blinks. Yuuri blinks right back at him. 

And then he realizes what Viktor has just said to him, and he doesn’t know if he meant to make it serious or not, but he can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. A pick-up line. A ridiculous, overused,  _ angel _ pick-up line.

Viktor smiles, and then he’s laughing too, and Yuuri wants to hear it forever and ever or maybe just for a few more minutes, before he hears the other sounds Viktor can make, preferably for the rest of the night.

He lets his intentions known as best he can with a tipsy mind by sliding a hand onto where he thinks Viktor’s knee is. He can’t really see anything below the other man’s chest, but he seems to make a lucky guess, if Viktor’s sharp inhale is anything to go by.

“One last thing,” Viktor says, and Yuuri doesn’t know how he sounds so calm while he says it, putting his drink down and leaning just a smidge closer to Yuuri, “your place or mine?”

Success. That’s  _ definitely _ a success in Yuuri’s books. He smiles. A little giddy. “I have a roommate. Yours is good.”

Viktor slides off his stool and slips his hand along the small of Yuuri’s back. The touch blazes a trail over Yuuri’s skin, because his sheer shirt isn’t helping to separate anything. “Let’s go, then.”

Yuuri trails him past the mass of sweaty people, a hand twined around the other man’s wrist, lights and sounds spinning all around him. Perhaps he’s had a bit much to drink, he thinks, but then he brushes that aside, because it got him this far, didn’t it? About to head home with the most beautiful man he’s seen in his life.

They hardly make it out of the cab. Viktor’s apartment, it seems, is on the third floor, and Viktor is intent on making Yuuri blind to any details, kissing along his skin with a fervor that makes him just about shut down.

For a flash of a moment while Viktor fumbles with the door, he thinks maybe he should text Phichit about where he is, but then Viktor tugs him past the doorway and guides Yuuri’s hand under his shirt, and anything logical he’s thinking flies out of his mind.

Viktor’s lips are on his mouth, on his neck, on his shoulders, and then they’re on his chest, and both their shirts seem to have disappeared - all he can see is the silver of Viktor’s hair, and what else does he have to see? He’s fine where he is.

“Is this okay?” Viktor asks between breaths, looking up from under his lashes, and he could have asked for anything right then and Yuuri would have given it to him. Yuuri makes an incoherent sound.

“No, Yuuri, look,” he urges, and so Yuuri does, because who is he to deny Viktor anything? “Is this okay?” He repeats, firmly. 

Yuuri stares absently until his mind catches up. He nods, then catches Viktor’s drift, and clears his throat. “Yeah.” Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

Satisfied, Viktor’s lips spread into a devastating smile. 

Yuuri doesn’t get much sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if I should maybe rate this or add archive warnings or something? not sure how the ratings work so i held off on it and i don't think any warnings apply, so...
> 
> also let me know what you think !! thanks for reading you lovely people xx
> 
> p.s. apologies about the formatting i'm still getting used to it :)  
> p.p.s. i don't have a beta (can you tell?)


	3. windchime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it has maybe occurred to anyone that these chapter titles mean anything, i'm flattered, because they're bs. i'm making them up. i'm writing the first word that comes into mind that sounds decent. i saw a windchime and i wrote windchime. that's it.  
> here take my apologies. take them.

Yuuri wakes to a pounding headache and the lingering feeling of regret written all over his skin.

It’s far too bright in his opinion, curtains thrown back to let daylight in, but Yuuri’s and Phichit’s room in their little one-bedroom apartment doesn’t even have curtains, so that’s the first indication that something is not right.

The second thing is that the night begins to come back to him, first as a blur of lights and gin, and then as a blur of sweat and lips on skin.

(If he remembers even that much, at least it means he hadn’t gotten completely wasted. That’s good, right?)

He kicks the covers off blearily. The sheets to his left are rumpled enough that whoever had occupied them -  _ Viktor _ , his mind supplies - must have left only a short while ago.

Well, Yuuri can take a hint. He’s (unfortunately) experienced enough morning-afters to know what waking up alone means. But he can’t blame anyone but himself, and he finds that it suspiciously doesn’t bother him, as he picks around the room, gathering the clothing that belongs to him.

He pulls on his jeans and his shirt, hooks his shoes on his fingers, and peeks into the en suite to make sure he doesn’t look like he’s been murdered (it’s what happens, sometimes, when he sleeps with mascara on). 

Slowly, trying his hardest not to make a sound, he slips out of the room. It leads down a short hallway into what seems to be a well-lit living room. Still no sign of inhabitants, thankfully.

He catches sight of the front door, and makes a beeline, but he’s stopped by the glimmer of silver hair in his peripherals. 

He stops. Turns. Viktor’s watching him, clad in nothing but socks and slacks and a smile, head cocked to the side.

“Good morning,” he says, and Yuuri’s reminded of why he’s in this man’s apartment in the first place, because dear _ God _ his accent is hot, “leaving so soon?”

Yuuri licks his lips. Shuffles his feet. He finds himself desperate for the buzz of liquid courage in his veins because Sober Yuuri has never been good at social interaction.

“I - um, figured I should go.”

Viktor nods thoughtfully. “Would you like to stay for breakfast? It’s only nine.”

Nobody’s ever offered Yuuri breakfast after a one-night stand. Viktor’s awfully polite.

“No thank you, but it’s very nice of you to ask,” he says, throat suddenly dry, and then regrets it because he thinks about all the sugary things he could have had and called it a cheat day, “I have to -”

The door slams open. With no warning, no click of a key in the lock or anything, it flies wide and startles Yuuri enough that he jumps a few inches into the air, clutching his shoes to his chest in shock.

When he sees who’s storming in, a familiar feeling of dread settles itself firmly into Yuuri’s ricage.

“Hey, old man, I brought - ” the blond teenager stops abruptly as his eyes land on Yuuri, and he splutters for a moment, “w - why are you - oh my god.” His hands fly up to cover his face, as if he’s witnessed something scarring, and idly Yuuri notes he’s got a brown paper bag in one hand.

“ _ Why _ is he  _ here _ ?” Yuri seethes. Yuuri assumes that this is aimed at Viktor. He, too, turns to Viktor for an answer. It’s not like he has one of his own, at least not one that he’s going to say out loud, in front of a teenager. He’s got  _ some _ sense of shame.

Viktor shrugs. Yuuri’s eyes catch on how the motion flexes the muscles of his shoulders, and he has to tear himself away before his mouth starts to water.

“Yuri, this is Yuuri - isn’t that funny, you have the same name! Well, I was just offering him something to eat. Do you have any suggestions?”

Yuri throws the brown bag somewhere over Viktor’s head, and he reaches up to catch it with a surprised hum. “Where did you even find pirozhki? That’s not a breakfast food, котенок.”

Uncomfortably, Yuuri shuffles his feet, and begins to inch his way toward the door, which is still gaping open. Perhaps if he’s inconspicuous enough, the two Russians will occupy themselves with each other, and he can make a smooth getaway.

“Where are you going, Yuuri?” Viktor interrupts himself mid-sentence to ask, and Yuuri feels blood rush to his face for  _ no reason at all _ . “Have you ever tried pirozhki? Yuri brought some. They’re delicious.”

Unhelpfully, Yuuri’s mind responds with a  _ you’re delicious _ , but at least the filter between his brain and his mouth is still intact, because he never would have lived it down if he’d said that out loud. Instead, he says, “I think I’ll, um, I’ll go. My roommate might be worried.” That’s absolutely not true. Phichit isn’t worried at all. He lies anyway. 

(Phichit has a sixth sense for these things. Phichit has a sixth sense for a lot of things. Yuuri would be scared of it if it weren’t so useful.)

Viktor dips his chin in assent. “All right, then. If you’re sure.” Then, as an afterthought, as Yuuri slips his shoes on, “Lovely meeting you.”

Yuuri looks up at that, slightly surprised, and Viktor winks. It’s a glaringly dazzling thing. 

As if worried that his presence might be forgotten, Yuri shrieks at that. “That’s  _ gross _ , Viktor. Get a room.”

Coolly, Viktor returns his attention to the ball of blond fury, and he laughs a little, which only serves to piss Yuri off more. It’s like watching a quality entertainment show, from Yuuri’s side of things.

“You’re in my apartment,” Viktor points out kindly, and Yuri stomps his foot in response.

As silently as he can manage, Yuuri steps outside, and pulls the door shut behind him. Viktor’s and Yuri’s bickering, faint through the door, transitions slowly into Russian, and Yuuri plasters himself against the wall outside Viktor’s door for a moment to catch his breath before he continues.

He’d have to thank Phichit later for dragging him to that club.

 

\--

 

“That’s the Yuuri from Lilia’s class, he’s the same  _ one _ -”

“Oh! Well, I have to say, he’s a little old for you, Yuri -”

“I  _ don’t  _ have a crush on him! He’s just weird!”

“Weird how? He seems  _ fine _ to me.”

“That’s - oh, that’s disgusting, old man. Don’t ever say that to me again.”

Viktor laughs. He can’t help it. There’s a furious blush that’s taken over Yuri’s little face entirely, and it’s only getting worse. “Don’t worry, kitten. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“Yeah, right. I hope it doesn’t take until I’m as old as you.”

“Let me tell you, Yuri, twenty-four really isn’t as old as you seem to think it is. You’re - what, fifteen? Just nine years.”

“The problem isn’t twenty-four, the problem is  _ you _ . That’s not the point. The point is  _ him _ -” Yuri points at the door, which has been quietly closed with Yuuri nowhere in sight, what a shame, “- and something is not right with him. He appeared out of nowhere, and on top of that, there was something wrong with his shoulder all of class, and with the way things look, I wouldn’t be surprised if he got shot or something.”

“Oh, Yuri, I didn’t realize you were paying such close attention.”

“What part of ‘ _ he’s shady’ _ do you not understand?!” Poor Yuri looks about ready to sprout claws, and Viktor takes that as his cue to back off a little.

He holds up his hands in the universal surrender sign. “Okay, all right, I’m listening. So maybe he’s just good enough that Lilia wanted to train him. So maybe he just hurt his shoulder. What’s wrong with that?” Now that he thinks about it, Yuuri  _ had _ seemed to favor his left shoulder. But Viktor’s hadn’t been too intent on checking for bruises or the like last night, not in the dim light through his bedroom window, not when he’d been otherwise occupied.

“I don’t  _ know _ , I don’t know who he is, I just think it’s weird.” Yuri trails off, unsure of what else to hook onto that sentence. “He’s just weird.”

Then, after a pause, he fixes Viktor with a suspicious stare, “Don’t tell me you exchanged numbers with your one-night stand.”

Viktor gasps, a hand at his mouth. “Yuri! You’re too young to know what that means. Who taught you that?”

Yuri directs his stare to the ceiling, and collapses onto his usual armchair. “Georgi. Did you or did you not?”

“Why?” Viktor asks coyly. “Did you want his number?”

Yuri snaps his jaw shut.

“If you must know,” Viktor says with a sigh, “I did give him my number. I forgot to get his, though. I do hope he’ll text. He was nice.”

“ _ Nice _ ,” Yuri grumbles. “Shady, I say. Still shady. Forever shady.”

 

\--

 

Instead of writing the essay that’s due on Wednesday, Yuuri’s holed up at the ring. 

Sara, the merciless beast that she is, has imparted wisdom in the form of several to-be bruises scattered along his legs and sides, but Yuuri isn’t about to let that stop him from procrastinating.

“Aren’t you done getting beaten up?” Sara teases, bouncing on her toes, fists wrapped and raised. She has the good grace to sound slightly out of breath.

Yuuri, wheezing and dripping in sweat, shakes his hair out of his face. He can hear every one of his sharp breaths echoed back at him in the silence of the empty arena. “Not yet. Why, you got a date?”

He doesn’t mean anything by it, but Sara smiles anyway, and it makes her eyes sparkle. The noncommittal hum she gives makes him freeze and drop his hands to his side.

“Sara,” he gasps, scandalized, “I’m hurt. You didn’t even mention it.”

She waves it away, but the beginnings of a blush sit high on her cheeks. She combs a hand through her ponytail. “A girl I met a couple of weeks ago. This is our third date, actually.”

Yuuri laughs, enthusiastic, and holds his arms out for a hug. “That’s amazing!”

She wraps her arms around him in response, and her laugh is muffled against his shoulder. “You and I both smell disgusting right now, huh? Excuse me,” she steps back, and dusts off her shirt exaggeratedly, “but I should probably shower before I meet her.”

“Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Mila. Her name is Mila.”

Sensing that their sparring session is about over, Yuuri begins to fiddle with the ends of the tape on his wrists. Sara, mirroring him, unwraps her own. 

The expression on Sara’s face shifts; her eyebrows pull together, her nose scrunches up, and the corners of her lips turn down. “Yuuri,” she begins, and then stops, as if unsure.

Yuuri stops picking at his tape and blinks at her. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something? Just… hypothetically.”

Right, hypothetically. “Of course.”

They’re alone in the underground arena, and the silence presses in. Yuuri feels like he’s going to learn a secret, and then immediately get shot by a sniper rifle because he’s not supposed to know it.

That’s ridiculous. Sara doesn’t have sniper-worthy secrets. She’s… just Sara Crispino, pretty eyes and ruthless skills and now she looks really, really nervous.

“Do you know anything about the East league?”

Yuuri hesitates. He’s learned a little, just bits and pieces, but not enough to understand anything other than the stoic rivalry (read: aversion) between their own North league and the fabled East league. 

He tells Sara as much.

She shuffles her feet. “If you were to know someone, say, a girl, in this league, with you,” she pauses, then continues, “who were to maybe know another girl, in the East league,” another pause, lengthier, “would you… tell anyone?”

Wary realization sneaks up on Yuuri. It wraps right around him. “Of - of course not.” He tries for a smile. Maybe he fails, maybe he doesn’t, Sara’s expression doesn’t change. “Their secret is theirs. Not my business.”

“And it wouldn’t bother you?”

Yuuri lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It hasn’t been very long since I joined, you know. I don’t know anything about whatever’s going on, mostly because no one will tell me.” He scrutinizes Sara’s expression, because maybe she would tell him if he asked nicely, but decides against it, seeing as she’s apparently got enough problems of her own. “So no, it wouldn’t bother me at all.”

Sara relaxes, and drops her interlaced hands. She gives him another smile, genuine this time. “Thank you, Yuuri.”

He returns it. “No problem. And, in this hypothetical situation, I’m asking for a friend, would the girls be… safe? Not in trouble? Maybe, um, maybe happy?”

Sara laughs. “Yeah. I think so. You understand,” she quiets again, “I just had to tell somebody.” 

“Of course, Sara. For the woman who introduced me to slightly illegal underground fighting leagues, I would do anything.”

This earns him another laugh, and Sara steps out of the ring, picking up her bottle and her bag. “I should head home, I think. Thanks so much, Yuuri.”

Yuuri waves with a half-taped hand.

He’s not too sure what he’s just learned. It doesn’t seem outrageous. It seems like two girls going on a date. But Sara had looked so nervous just mentioning the East league, as if saying the name would summon a demon, and she’d been so grateful when he had assured her he was fine with it.

If there’s such a hatred between the leagues, Yuuri thinks, as he crouches by his bag to stuff his water bottle inside, maybe he should find out a little more. About exactly what he’s gotten himself into.

 

\--

 

Yuuri comes home to find Phichit furiously engaged in a selfie war.

This is not new. What’s new is that it now apparently has to involve Yuuri as well. 

“Phichit, no -”

“I look so awful right now, do you have to -”

“ _ No _ , I want the puppy filter, I don’t want sunglasses -”

“Absolutely no face swaps, this is too much -”

In the end, Phichit gets about three usable shots of Yuuri, in various stages of distress, one with the puppy filter and one with a strobe lights and sunglasses filter, and one that’s blurry but Phichit decides to use anyway.

“Who are you even sending all these horrible pictures to?” Yuuri sighs, dropping his bag in the bedroom to grab pajamas from his closet. He needs a shower, desperately. (Sara was right about that.) (Sara’s always right. That’s rule number four.)

“Chris,” Phichit says, between flying fingers as he types a caption.

“Chris? Who’s that?”

“Met him at the club last -” Phichit stops his selfie barrage, which is a miracle in itself, and robotically turns to Yuuri with a raised eyebrow and the makings of a smirk. “Last night. Yuuri, care to tell me where you were this morning?”

Oh. Oh, no. 

His face betrays him, and Yuuri flushes fire engine red.  _ Oh, no _ .

“I was, um, home. I came home.” It’s weak. He’s weak to Phichit’s questioning. He can’t hide a thing. 

“I noticed that part. I also noticed you came home with your shirt inside out, mysterious red marks all over, and - here’s the biggest one -  _ in the morning _ .” His smirk has grown to dangerous levels. It should be subdued, or he will definitely do something that Yuuri is not going to like.

“I… it’s -”

Phichit cuts him off with a palm, closing it to a fist, the signal to  _ stop talking _ . So of course Yuuri does.

“I, a simple man, want to know three things. One: name?” He looks at Yuuri expectantly, and Yuuri takes it as permission to speak.

“Viktor.”

Phichit whistles. Yuuri blushes some more. It’s terrific. “Two: please tell me you have at least one picture. I have to know what he looks like.”

Yuuri, thankful that he doesn’t actually have any pictures, and therefore does not have to lie to Phichit (and subsequently get caught), shakes his head. 

Phichit is not satisfied.

“Fine, fine, he’s, um, he was tall,” Yuuri offers, “and he had, like, silver hair -”

“My, Yuuri, next you’ll tell me he drives a Ferrari -”

“ _ No, _ Phichit, oh my god not like  _ that _ , it’s just… just silver, he’s not  _ older _ , I can’t believe you-”

Phichit cackles. “I know, okay, it’s fine, keep going, please.”

Yuuri glares for a half a moment before he falters and almost starts laughing himself. “What else? He had blue eyes, I think. Couldn’t really tell.”

Phichit wiggles his eyebrows. Yuuri wishes that he could just stop talking altogether, because he  _ knows _ he says these things, and Phichit loves to just run with them. “Couldn’t tell, hm? I guess you must have been… otherwise occupied.”

“Phichit, I swear, I’m going to turn and go shower now and you won’t be able to torture me through the door.” This, too, is weak. Yuuri’s comebacks are always weak. He knows that Phichit knows that it is weak, but Phichit leaves it alone anyway.

“And three,” he says, with an air of finality, and a pointed look at Yuuri’s bicep, “please tell me you texted him.”

Yuuri blinks. And stares. He contorts himself to look at his arm, and when his eyes are focused on his skin, he nearly shrieks. 

Written in a band around his bicep are numbers, written in sloppy Sharpie, uneven and barely visible past his sleeve, but  _ definitely _ present.

Yuuri scrambles to open the door to the bathroom and lifts up his sleeve to check again, in the mirror, and look, there they are, just like they apparently have been for the entirety of the day, unnoticed by Yuuri, their proud wearer.

He curses. In Japanese, but Phichit seems to get the drift, and snickers. “I guess you haven’t, seeing as you didn’t even know. I can’t believe you didn’t realize he wrote his number. It’s  _ on _ you, Yuuri.”

“It’s Sharpie, Phichit,” Yuuri whines, as he rubs water over the area, and the numbers refuse to budge, “I hate it when they do Sharpie. It never comes off.”

“Right, because that’s the biggest of your problems.” Phichit holds out a hand expectantly. “Where’s your phone?”

“In my bag. Phichit, what if I can’t get it off?”

Phichit busies himself with the hunt for Yuuri’s phone. He fishes it out of the side pocket with a victory grunt, and thumbs past Yuuri’s home screen (Phichit’s fingerprint has been in the scanner for two years now).

He squints between Yuuri’s arm and Yuuri’s phone, typing, and when Yuuri realizes what he’s doing, he makes a mad grab for the device. 

“No! Don’t! Stop!”

Because he is a good friend, after the third negative shriek, Phichit stops what he’s doing. He has half the number typed in. “He wrote his number on you, Yuuri, in  _ Sharpie _ . He must be devastated that you haven’t even texted him yet.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Yuuri defends, “he probably doesn’t even want to see me again. He was so uncomfortable he offered breakfast.  _ Breakfast _ , Phichit, how desperate do you have to be to do that?”

Phichit slowly purses his lips. “I think people offer food to people that they want to talk to. You know, outside the whole drunk hookup thing.”

“No, I was there, and I don’t think that’s what it was -”

“There’s something else, isn’t there? What aren’t you saying?”

Phichit and his frightening sixth sense for everything. It’s like a superpower. 

Yuuri manages to wrestle the device away at last. “It’s just - it might be weird. He, um, one of the kids from Madam Lilia’s class showed up to his apartment this morning. Before I left. I don’t know. It was really strange. He also seemed  _ pissed  _ that I was there.”

Phichit hums. “If it’s the same kid you told me about before, that Yuri, I’d say being angry is more a… a character description, and not a situation-based emotion for him.”

“Still,” Yuuri protests weakly. 

Then, because he can’t think of anything else to say to Phichit now or ever, he promptly slams shut the door to the bathroom, effectively trapping himself (and his clothes, and his phone) inside.

He can deal with Phichit’s wise words later. For now, he has to wash off the bucketloads of sweat from training. And vigorously soap the numbers on his arm. Maybe, if he rinses enough times, they’ll start to fade.

(Who is he trying to fool? They’re in Sharpie. They’re as good as permanent tattoo.)

(And if, later, Phichit asks why he’s so hell-bent on washing them off, and Yuuri can’t think of a proper answer… that’s nobody’s business but his.)

 

\--

 

“Yuuri, please don’t tell me you’re leaving the house like that.”

Yuuri pauses. He’s on his way out the door, and because he’s a good person, he isn’t making a big deal out of stepping outside, but apparently Phichit doesn’t want to allow his the same courtesy.

Like some kind of genie, Phichit appears a few feet away from him, leaning judgmentally against the wall. He raises an eyebrow. 

Yuuri looks down at himself. He’s wearing nice joggers, fresh out of the wash, and and what is, in his esteemed opinion, a lovely dark blue shirt with white stripes down the side. He looks fine.

“No, please, you can’t wear stripes on stripes.” Phichit points at the bedroom with a slender finger and gestures for Yuuri to follow it, with a pout forming on his lips. Yuuri throws up his hands in surrender.

“No stripes on stripes! Okay! I’m not going to a catwalk, you know. The studio isn’t going to care what I’m wearing.”

“I’m going to care,” Phichit hollers.

Yuuri mumbles under his breath as he quickly strips off the shirt and replaces it with a dark grey shirt he thinks he’s already worn once but that’s fine, because if the smell doesn’t knock him out, then it’s good for use.

“Hey, come look. It’s Sara,” Phichit says, and tosses his phone at Yuuri as soon as he’s within Phichit’s line of sight.

Yuuri fumbles to catch the device. He’s well aware that if he drops it, if it sustains so much as a miniscule crack, he won’t hear the end of Phichit’s tears and sonnets for weeks to come. He doesn’t really want to suffer that much.

It is, in fact Sara. Phichit’s phone is open to Instagram, in which a photo of Sara is currently on Phichit’s screen. Sara’s smiling happily at the camera, one hand curled around a little plastic spoon and a dollop of ice cream at the end of it. 

“Nice,” Yuuri says uncertainly, handing the phone back.

Phichit pushes it back to him. “Look who posted it,” Phichit urges.

The photo has been posted by one  **mila.babicheva** .

Mila. The Mila that Yuuri has been sworn to secrecy about. Yuuri feels like he’s about to break into sweat, and he hasn’t even moved an inch. 

Nervously, he looks up from the phone to Phichit, and purses his lips. Phichit can read him like an open book, he knows, but he tries anyway. “Yes?”

Phichit taps his chin with his finger. “Now, I know for a  _ fact _ that Mila Babicheva happens to be one of the East league’s most promising competitors -”

“ _ How _ do you even know that,” Yuuri tries to interject, but Phichit shushes him halfway through.

“Like you said, it’s been eight months.” He shrugs. “I do my research. Anyway, this can mean one of two things. One,” he lifts a finger emphatically, “those two are dating.”

Yuuri tries not to screech. He can’t be expected to keep a straight face. It’s emotionally draining.

“Two,” Phichit lifts a second finger, then points both of them to the phone that Yuuri is still holding, “those two are dating. There’s no other explanation. And now it’s your turn to tell me whether or not it’s true, because I mean, I’m good at Instagram stalking, but verbal confirmation would be nice.”

Phichit drops the hand and beams at Yuuri. He’s very, very proud of himself.

Yuuri takes a breath. And then he holds it.

Phichit frowns. “Yuuri, you’re turning red. Please breathe.”

Yuuri breathes. “OkayItalkedtoSaratodayandshesaidtheyweredating.”

Meanwhile, in his head, a constant stream of  _ I’m an awful liar why can’t I keep secrets does this make me a bad friend I said I wouldn’t tell anyone and here I am telling Phichit does Phichit count as a people I mean we’re best friends am I not supposed to tell him everything but Sara said not to tell any - _

Phichit pumps a fist in the air. “Yes! I knew it! Oh, that’s so wonderful for them.” He double taps the photo, and then stashes the phone in his pocket. He looks up, and seems to register Yuuri’s distress, because he steps forward.

“No, it’s okay! Did Sara tell you to keep it a secret? I’m sorry, it’s just me, I’m not going to say anything -”

“Does that make me a bad person? I said I wouldn’t tell anyone!” Yuuri bursts out.

“No, no, it doesn’t! Was she afraid because Mila’s not in the league?”

Yuuri grimaces. It’s enough for Phichit.

“Yuuri, please. I’m not part of any league. I’m not going to tell anyone. It’s not going to hurt Sara. Can you trust that?”

Yuuri drops his head onto Phichit’s shoulder. Honestly, it’s happened enough times that Phichit lets Yuuri do as he likes. There’s a sigh against Phichit’s collar. “Yeah. It’s okay. I wasn’t supposed to say anything, but… it’s fine. Right?”

“Right,” Phichit confirms. He pats his friend on the shoulder. “Now get out. You have to be at the studio in ten minutes.”

Yuuri Panics™, edition 2.0, and fumbles with his shoes before practically falling out of the door. “Bye,” he waves, and shrieks as he almost collides into the elderly lady that lives across from them, and then he’s gone.

The lady adjusts her glasses as she and Phichit watch Yuuri hightail it out of the building. “Kids,” she tuts, “always in such a hurry.”

Phichit grins.

 

\--

 

Chris’ Phone: Messages

 

**Vikki Nikki**

chris help

im having a gay crisis

please

im your friend please help

 

**Me**

viktor you’re gay, every crisis is a gay crisis

 

**Vikki Nikki**

E

X

A

C

T

L

Y

 

**Me**

what ????do you want????

 

**Vikki Nikki**

please he was so cute

i gave him my number but its been 24 hours and he hasnt texted

or called

 

**Me**

has he seen you naked

 

**Vikki Nikki**

what do you think of me

i am no heathen

of course he has

which is why he has my number

i even wrote it on him in my blue sharpie

 

**Me**

sorry darling

give him another day

 

**Vikki Nikki**

if he doesnt will u help me internet stalk him

 

**Me**

don’t think you’ll need my help with that

 

**Vikki Nikki**

[crying emoji] please

 

**Me**

if you need me

of course

 

\--

 

Mila drops an arm around Yuri’s shoulders, and rests her chin on his head.

Yuri, predictably, screeches.

Mila laughs, and pulls him a little closer against her chest. “Oh, Yurachka, don’t be so rude to your sister.”

“You’re  _ not _ my sister,” he pushes valiantly against her, to no avail, “so get  _ off _ me, hag.”

Mila finds sudden interest in Yuri’s phone screen, which he’s got clutched between his hands. It’s open to Instagram. “What are you looking at? Who’s that?”

Faster than she’s ever seen him move, he pulls the screen out of her view, and shuts it off, turning it to black. She tuts at him. “You don’t have to hide it, you know. You can’t keep secrets from your  _ family _ .”

“You’re  _ not _ my family, I already  _ have _ a family -”

“Family! Yura, you know you’re like a son to me,” Viktor appears, apparently having been summoned spontaneously by Yuri’s distress, only to fan the flames.

Yuri groans. “Please. I don’t deserve any of this.”

Viktor coos. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”

“Vitya, get back here. You can’t leave things half finished!” Yakov’s shout cuts through the din of the arena, or maybe it  _ is _ the din of the arena, but it falls on deaf ears. Viktor stubbornly ignores it.

“Mila, I saw the photo of your beautiful girlfriend on Instagram. I’m glad  _ someone’s _ having a good romance.” Viktor sighs dramatically, pushes his fringe out of his face.

He fixes Yuri, and then Mila, with a deplorable pout, until Mila finally breaks under it.

“What? What happened? What do you want me to ask you? No, you can’t have my girlfriend.”

Viktor is momentarily derailed by her last comment. “I don’t - I have never - just Yuuri hasn’t called me. Or even texted.” He turns on his phone, and shows it to them, just to prove it. “What’s a man to do? He’s broken my heart already.”

“Vitya!” Yakov looks like his blood pressure is escalating to dangerous levels. He’s got one end of a training mat in his hand, the other end abandoned on the floor, and he’s positively fuming.

Mila taps a finger to her nose. “Yuuri, hm? You said Yuuri?”

Viktor’s shoulders droop some more. The posture looks crooked on him, as it’s only ever normal to see his back ramrod straight, from years of spending too much time with Yakov and by extension, his ex-wife Lilia. At least, back when they were just wife and husband, and not exes. 

“That’s him,” Viktor sighs.

Mila’s brows furrow some more. Her grip on Yuri loosens while she’s in thought, and Yuri seizes the opportunity to duck out of her arm, and triumphantly slinks away. (He pulls his phone back out of his pocket, and he’s  _ not _ logged into his Twitter account. It’s  _ not _ his second one, the one that he for all intents and purposes has  _ no _ affiliation with whatsoever. The one that’s  _ definitely not _ addressed @katsukifan01.)

“You know,” Mila begins hesitantly, “Sara said something about her friend Yuuri the other day. She didn’t say much, but I remember the name.”

Viktor flaps a hand. “My Yuuri is in college. No way he knows Sara Crispino, of all friends to make.”

Mila is very immediately defensive. “Hey, what do you mean -”

“No, no,” Viktor says quickly, “I just meant, if he knew Sara, it would have something to do with her league, yes? Because there’s no other reason for your Sara to know a college student. So it can’t be the same Yuuri.”

Mila shrugs. Stretches an arm over her head. “Oh, well. Anyway. I’m out of practice. Want to spar?”

Viktor switches gears instantly, into predator mode. He opens his mouth to accept her challenge, but Yakov’s furious holler cuts him off before he can even get a sound out.

“ _ Vitya, if you spend another moment wasting time, I’ll slit your throat. _ ”

Viktor grimaces. “Just a moment,” he promises Mila, and she smirks (that this time, she’s not the one under Yakov’s ire), “I left Yakov with a mat.”

Viktor turns and flees, or rather he runs right into the heart of danger, into Yakov’s line of sight. Mila can see the steam rising off of Yakov’s balding head, even from her distance.

Viktor picks up his end of the mat, and they march it back to whatever corner it belongs in, while Viktor stares absently at a wall and Yakov reprimands his ear off.

Mila pulls the ropes back and hops into one of the rings, rolling her wrists. It’s been a few weeks since she’s been down; she hadn’t been lying when she said she was out of practice. If she wanted to start out by sparring Viktor, their resident legend, she decides she might want to warm up first.

She’s worked herself into a thin sweat by the time Viktor appears again.

He whines throughout the whole thing.

 

\--

 

Phichit’s Phone: Messages

 

**Yuuri**

how did u know who mila was

 

**Me**

yuuri its like midnight

and u could talk to me thru the wall

we live together u know

 

**Yuuri**

i like when its quiet

listen sara had to spell it out for me 

i dont understand how u know everything

 

**Me**

dear precious bean i know all

 

**Yuuri**

phichit i will shut off the wifi

explain

 

**Me**

you wouldnt dare

you monster

fine i silently stalk people on insta

is that what u wanted to hear

 

**Yuuri**

but how did u KNOW

 

**Me**

please dont shut off the wifi

i hear a lot of things when i come to ur matches

someone must have mentioned it idk

heard about a girl named mila

found a mila on insta

we had the same followers

voilà it is she

 

**Yuuri**

is it really that easy

 

**Me**

maybe if u actually used the account i made for u, u would know

 

**Yuuri**

if you can put the accent in voila then you can spell out ‘you’ 

 

**Me**

dont ever talk to me or my texting skills again

 

**Yuuri**

is that one of those meme things

it sounds like it

i dont get it

 

**Me**

sometimes i wonder how u can live with me

and still turn out like this

i raised u better, yuuri

 

**Yuuri is typing...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i firmly believe that the characters speak different languages amongst themselves...  
> like when yuri and viktor are talking, they speak russian and not english; that's why for their conversation, viktor calls yuri 'kitten' and not the russian word for it (котенок), because for the story i have 'translated' the whole conversation. but when yuuri is there, they converse in english, but viktor still calls yuri котенок, and it sounds foreign to yuuri's ears. does that make sense? i tried to explain it but maybe i should just leave it alone lmao sorry if that didn't make any sense OTL


	4. impervious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's add more to that pile of things that Yuuri is worried about.

Lilia works him ragged.

Minako was always, without a doubt, the best teacher Yuuri ever had. But Lilia’s something else. She has him doing pliès and extensions with a snap of her fingers, battements and leaps with a pointed look, and he’s completely washed out by the time she deigns to let him go, after the sun has gone down.

It’s on a Friday night, when he slinks past Yuri in hopes of leaving unnoticed before the younger boy decides to say something pointed, that he’s stopped by a hand to the shoulder.

“Wait,” Yuri says, and even he sounds too tired to follow it up with his signature snark, “just… wait.”

So naturally, Yuuri lets his bag fall off his shoulder with a  _ thud _ and he waits.

Yuri drags him outside by the elbow when a hot pink Cadillac pulls into the parking lot. Even in the dark, it’s… striking, to say the least. Yuuri chooses not to comment on it.

Honestly, he isn’t left much of a choice about it. Yuri shouts something in Russian at the passenger side window, unintelligible to Yuuri’s ears, and the window slowly rolls down.

Lamplight reflects off of silver hair. He knows that silver hair.

“Yuuri!” Viktor waves a few fingers. “Good to see you. Imagine my surprise when Yura tells me he knows you from ballet!”

Yuuri takes a deep breath. He’s so, so unprepared for this. “Yeah,” he agrees weakly. “Surprise.”

“You must be tired. Have a way to get home? It’s cold out today.”

That it is, but it’s late and November so that’s to be expected. Yuuri has invested in bundling himself into a jacket and biking the places that he doesn’t need to take the bus to, and that’s exactly what he plans to do tonight.

He nods.

Viktor hums.

“Hey.” Yuri snarls, without much malice, from where he’s leaning on the trunk of the car. He has his hands shoved into the pockets of his giant sweatshirt. “If you’re done, it’s cold out, and I want to go home.”

“Kind of you, Yura,” Viktor croons. Yuri scoffs.

To Yuuri, Viktor says, “It really is nice to see you again. I was hoping you would call, but I suppose the first impression wasn’t the best I could have done.”

Yuuri cracks his knuckles absently. It’s a nervous habit. He’s nervous. “What?”

“I did give you my number, didn’t I? Ah, well. You probably want to get home.”

His number? Yuuri thinks, if he was in possession of a phone number belonging to someone that looks like an angel, he would definitely have saved it into his phone. He’s not, by any means, selective about these sorts of things.

Viktor gives the twinkling little wave of his fingers again, flashes a smile. Yuuri wants to stare at that smile for as long as he can latch his eyes on, because the man is - and Phichit will wheedle him to no end about this if (when) he learns about it - the very definition of eye candy. 

(Gorgeous. What the hell.)

Viktor fixes his eyes onto the rearview mirror. “Yura!” He shouts, and Yuri startles.

“Coming,” Yuri grumbles. He shoulders Yuuri out of the way, and launches his bag into the leg space of the passenger seat before sliding in.

“Bye, Yuuri,” Viktor sings, as he backs out of the parking space, Yuri staring straight ahead with a tired glare fixed on his face.

A little late, Yuuri raises a hand in a wave. “Bye.”

 

\--

 

“Phichit,” Yuuri groans, a pillow over his face, but somehow Phichit hears him anyway and grunts in response, “I can’t handle all of it. It’s too much.”

Phichit does  _ not _ respond to that.

Yuuri continues. “The only solution is to change my name and buy a hat and move to South Africa. Sara knows a guy.”

“Now, now,” Phichit says consolingly, absentmindedly, as he scribbles something in the margin of his notebook, “I’m sure you can find a better solution than that.”

A moment of consideration. “You’re right. I don’t even speak the language. I’d have to learn the language first.”

Phichit hums.

Yuuri presses tenderly at the bruise forming on his ribs, then whimpers when it results in a pang of pain, because he’s dumb like that. “It  _ hurts _ ,” he wails, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.

Instead of working on the homework he has piling up on his desk, Yuuri continues to flop around on his bed, dramatically stuffing his face into pillows and laying an arm over his forehead, not necessarily in that order.

His phone rings. It’s an immediate distraction from his problems, so Yuuri scrambles to find the incessant sound. Phichit changed it to an obnoxious alarm sound a few days ago in a fit of boredom, and neither of them have exhibited enough care to change it back.

Sara’s face, profile because Yuuri had taken a photo for her contact on his phone while she wasn’t paying attention, lights up the screen.

“Sara,” Yuuri says in lieu of a hello, “thank goodness. Please, help me.”

_ “Yes, well, this might not be what you want to hear. I’ve got news.” _

“All news is good news. I have problems and Phichit’s ignoring me.”

Phichit doesn’t even bother defending himself.

_ “Not so good news. Isabella tells me Leroy went and challenged the East league, and here’s the kicker: they accepted.” _

Yuuri blinks. “What?”

_ “Yeah. So it’s - I think it’s ten versus ten, but elimination style, you know? Next week is the first fight.” _

Tentatively, because now there’s dread seeping into his veins, and oh no this doesn’t sound so good, Yuuri bites the inside of his cheek. “What does that have to do with me?”

He has a feeling he already knows.

_ “You’re up next week.” _

“God _ no _ .”

 

\--

 

“So - right. So you already have an advantage, because they know absolutely nothing about you. You’ve kept yourself pretty hidden because you’re a student, and that’s paying off pretty well.”

Yuuri nods along as he wraps his wrist.

“And the way you move is  _ very _ different. You can use that. But you have to remember not to get cocky. Your biggest weakness is you let your guard down when you move. You can’t do that.”

Yuuri continues to nod. His head might fall off his neck before he even hits the ring.

Sara begins to say something else, but then cuts herself off. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, a few loose locks escaping, and she threads her fingers through them, tucking them behind her ear. A dry smile.

“Not much else I can say, is there?”

Yuuri shakes his head. If he tries to speak now, he doesn’t know if anything will come out, much less something dignified or intelligible. Best he stick to gestures.

She drops a hand on his shoulder. He tries to uncoil the tension in his muscles, but it’s almost like instinct; stress brings out his tightest posture. Perhaps it’s a bad habit.

“Keep your head screwed on right, and you’ll drop-kick him into next week.”

Yuuri’s fought in matches before, of course he has. He’s performed for crowds three times the size of the one by the ring, but then again when he’s performed he’s never stood the threat of being knocked out cold.

(Even if he does get knocked out today, he thinks, he’s got to make sure that he doesn’t get hit somewhere he can’t cover it with a shirt. He can’t go to Madam Lilia’s class with a bruise blossoming. She would be disappointed.)

Sara hands him a bottle and pushes him out into the clutches of the crowd.

He’d gotten used to seeing familiar faces in the crowd, he supposes, as he pulls himself onto the raised platform. But half the crowd is foreign now, something he’s not used to, and it makes him feel like their eyes are plastered to him, like his every movement is being watched. Judged.

Well, screw that. He’ll knock this wannabe into tomorrow. He has an exhibit performance in five weeks and there’s no chance that he lets this idiot get in his way.

As soon as his name is announced, Yuuri’s in a daze. He knows he won’t be able to recall who threw the first punch (it was the other guy), or his opponent’s face, not tonight and not tomorrow morning and not a week from now, but for the moment the world is painted in thick glass and crystal clear movements.

He feels his own strikes and blocks as fluid as if he never stops moving, and maybe it’s the adrenaline or the fact that he’s been trained to  _ never _ stop moving, but the other man’s double roundhouse grazes his ribs once and Yuuri hardly even feels it, and he doesn’t know if he should be worried about that.

He’s not in any danger of breaking a bone, obviously, because that’s not what the goal is; the goal is only to ground him, to hold him down, and unless his opponent’s feeling particularly barbaric, it won’t be too bad on his body.

But the moment his foot gets swept and he stumbles, there’s an insistent weight pressing down on his shoulders, and Yuuri panics. There’s no chance of him holding himself upright like that, so he adds to the pressure and throws himself down, twisting, and lands with an arm pinned under him but it’s not his arm, so that’s good.

He flips himself over, digs his shoulder into the space between his opponent’s clavicles, and feels the other man’s breath catch dangerously.

The grip on him loosens. Yuuri springs onto his knees, brackets his thighs around the man’s arms and pins then to his sternum, in a move that Sara once told him was one of the most unconventional takedowns she had ever seen.

He supposes that’s his advantage. Unconventional.

The whistle blows, shrill, and it feels like relief. Is that really it? Absolutely not. That wasn’t even three minutes.

Isabella manifests in his line of sight, and offers him a hand. Hesitantly, he takes it. He’s done this before, he could  _ swear _ he has, so why does he feel so… out of it?

Self-consciously, he pats himself down, straightening his shirt.

“First round,” Isabella announces, “winner: Katsuki.”

The crowd, or at least part of it, cheers.

Isabella pulls him to the corner where Sara sits on the platform, just outside the ropes, and hands him his water. “Drink,” she instructs. “That was good. But it also looked like you weren’t really paying attention.”

Yuuri hums.

Sara snaps her fingers in front of his face, and he jerks back.

“That’s more like it. Technically, you could lose the next round and win the third, but I’d prefer if you didn’t get your butt handed to you, so please try to win the next one, too.”

Yuuri huffs. Pats at his neck with the towel.

“Please remind me after this is over,” Yuuri begins primly, leaning closer to Sara’s ear for some semblance of privacy from the crowd surrounding them, “to give Cialdini a piece of my  _ freaking mind _ for putting my name in this disaster.”

He pulls himself upright using the ropes, and Sara grins up at him. Two thumbs up.

He tries for a smile back. Isabella pulls him back to the center of the ring.

Announces the second round.

And they’re off again.

If he can pin his opponent, it’s done. He goes home. 

If he loses, well. Cialdini took a risk putting the new player in the field, especially when they’re up against a different league altogether, and Cialdini won’t hesitate to drop him if he can’t prove that he can hold his own against the East.

Yuuri has to hold his own.

Yuuri darts to the left, aims a barrage of kicks at his opponent’s middle, a whirlwind of motion. That’s something he’s good at. Not stopping.

His opponent has dropped his weight low to block all the kicks at his ribs. If Yuuri hits his sternum, that’s well and good, but that’s not his goal at all.

When Yuuri’s satisfied, he flips the switch and throws himself into the air, all his weight into locking his knees around his shoulders and pushing him to the mat.

Gah. It doesn’t work. There are hands clamped onto his thighs now, and  _ no _ that’s not good, Yuuri’s about to get pinned right onto the floor -

He flips his weight. Braces his hands against the man’s stomach and kicks right off his chest, and somehow he manages to land back on his feet. He looks up just in time to see his opponent stumble back into the ropes from the force of Yuuri’s two-footed kick at close quarters.

Chance opening.

Yuuri turns his back to his opponent and locks his knee between his opponent’s legs, an arm behind his throat, and snaps his joints locked so the man falls with a  _ thud _ , unable to keep his balance.

Yuuri presses a knee against his chest, pulls his arm up and folds it so he can’t push himself back up.

Even before the whistle blows, he knows he’s won.

He’s… won.

Isabella yanks him up again, because apparently he isn’t capable of getting to his feet on his own, and holds his arm up to declare him the victor, and an echoing cheer goes up from the gathered crowd.

The man Yuuri’s just bested stands, carefully dusts himself off, and holds out a hand.

Yuuri stares at it for a moment before flicking his eyes back up to the man’s face. He looks… sincere enough.

Isabelle knocks him in the shoulder, and Yuuri stumbles slightly. He hastily shakes the man’s hand; he thinks he hears “good luck”, but he’s not too sure, because he can’t really hear anything said to him outside a two-foot radius.

The rest of it is a blur. Yuuri hates that that happens to him; performances are the same way, but he supposes it’s for the best. If he remembered everything he did during and after a performance, his tendency to overanalyze might not let him live through the experience.

Sara pats him on the back, gingerly, and makes a face. “You’re all sweaty, probably going to have a bruise or two, but,” she flashes a beaming smile, “you did great. You did  _ amazing _ . They’re going to be so worried.”

Yuuri is focused on draining the bottle of water.

“Don’t forget to stretch before you leave today,” Sara warns, but before she leaves, she pauses. “Phichit asked me to tell you he wants you to meet someone. A friend. I think they’re right outside.”

He nods. “Sara.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

She smiles. “No problem.”

 

\--

 

The outside air is a wonderful reprieve from the suffocating feel of the arena.

A stiff breeze is insistent about blowing Yuuri’s hair right into his eyes, but he holds it back with his free hand, the other securely wrapped around his bag.

Just outside the door, Phichit’s figure leans against the brick wall, a taller one next to him.

Phichit calls his name happily. Yuuri waves.

“Yuuri, this is Chris. Have you met?”

Yuuri squints at him. He doesn’t have his glasses on, they’re still somewhere in the bag he’s holding, but with the light spilling from the street lamps he can make out the blond-and-brunet undercut, the broad shoulders, the guarded smile.

Chris holds out a hand. “Heard a lot about you, actually,” he says serenely.

He’s… not supposed to have heard anything about Yuuri. He isn’t with their league, Yuuri knows that much, and Yuuri’s done a bang-up job of keeping his name out of almost everything, mostly because he needs to stay clean to keep his scholarship.

Chris must read the confusion on Yuuri’s face, because he elaborates: “From Viktor, my friend. He had plenty to say.”

Slowly, Yuuri nods, because he’s not sure what Viktor would have had to say about him, but he knows it can’t be all that great.

“Good to meet you, Chris,” Yuuri says as kindly as he’s able to manage in his half-confused, half-exhausted state.

Phichit licks his lips and bolts up straight. “Right. Hope you enjoyed seeing my best friend here kick butt,” Phichit pats Yuuri’s shoulder, directing a sly smile to Chris, “because it won’t be the last time. Though I’m glad you came to see just what he can do.”

Yuuri’s, frankly, too tired to even dispute the ridiculous things that are coming out of Phichit’s mouth.

In a slightly delirious turn of mind processing, he thinks,  _ that’s right. Tell him. He should be terrified _ .

Before he’s aware of what’s happening, Phichit’s steering him away and back to the bus station, and Chris’ bright blond hair is nowhere to be seen.

“Time to get you home,” Phichit mutters, “I don’t think I’d be able to carry you up the stairs.”

Probably untrue, because Yuuri is many things and a danseur is one of those things, and honestly he’s light enough that Phichit could piggyback him up a flight of stairs if he had to.

Yuuri knows that. Phichit knows that. Yuuri still climbs the stairs by himself because he’s a good friend like that.

 

\--

 

Chris’ photo lights up the phone screen, an obnoxious LED contrast to the soft moonlight spilling through Viktor’s bedroom window. He’s trying to have a peaceful night, but apparently that’s not going to happen, so he picks up the phone.

_ “May I just say,” _ Chris says with an odd air of smugness to his tone,  _ “that you have  _ wonderful _ taste and if I weren’t otherwise occupied, I’d keep your Yuuri all to myself.” _

Viktor blinks lazily, not quite caught up. “What?”

_ “Don’t act so confused. Please tell me you knew that the tournament’s started already. The second match of the week was today.” _

“Tournament?” As if to punctuate his confusion, he yawns. 

Chris sighs.  _ “I know Yakov told you. You’re up next week, aren’t you?” _

“You can’t…” Viktor cuts himself off. Chris can’t mean what Viktor  _ thinks _ he means. “No. Yuuri?”

Chris is quiet for a moment. The warmth of the phone against Viktor’s cheek only gets hotter.  _ “You didn’t know, then?” _

“Not Yuuri. He’s still in school.” That’s a weak defense, and Viktor knows it. How could he not have known? He’s supposed to know these things.

_ “So’s this one. I’m, er - sorry. I thought he’d have told you. Isn’t that a coincidence?” _

“What? Why would he have told me?”

Chris chuckles. Funny sound through the phone, but Viktor’s used to it.  _ “You’re both competing. I find that a little amusing. Don’t you?” _

Viktor stares at the wall, and he stares hard. He’s telling himself this is unrealistic, there’s  _ no way _ \- but then he thinks - and yeah. And yeah, of course,  _ yes _ .

The first thing he thinks, now  _ that’s  _ amusing - Yuri definitely called it first, with all his muttering about his suspicion, about something not right, and here it is, he was right. 

(As if Viktor’s going to tell him, ha.)

(But wait - if Yuuri’s in the competition - )

“Who else knows?”

_ “I don’t know. It was still a preliminary match, so there wasn’t much of an audience, though.” _

“So - that’s good. Maybe he won’t even figure it out, right?”

_ “You don’t want him to know? That’s a little unfair,” _ Chris teases, but there’s a truth under it.  _ “He fought pretty well today. And you know the rules don’t apply to someone who’s already in a league.” _ After a pause,  _ “Honesty is the best policy, and all.” _

Viktor scoffs. “Honesty gets put through a meat grinder the same way we fight each other.”

Chris hums his assent.  _ “It’s not my place to tell him anything, but - ” _ he cuts himself off.

“But what?”

_ “Nothing. Just keep it in mind, okay? He’s smart.” _

“Of course. It just - I can’t. He wouldn’t take me seriously.”

_ “You’re assuming that.” _

“Let’s call it an educated guess. If he’s anywhere as sensible as he seems, he’ll… he’ll bolt.” Viktor looses a breath. He’s right, and he knows it.

_ “Like I said. I won’t talk. But you need to think about this. The sooner, the better.” _

“Yeah.”

 

\--

 

Lilia asks him about his degree, one day.

“What do you study?” She asks, arms crossed and scrutinizing his form in the mirror.

Taken off guard, Yuuri misses a movement, but he catches back on immediately. “What?”

She doesn’t repeat herself, she only nods her head, in a  _ yes, you know _ , sort of gesture.

“Engineering. I’m on my third year. How - did you know?”

“I just know. You spend a lot of time here, though. Dance is important to you. Yet you are not studying it.”

Yuuri doesn’t know if that’s a question or an accusation, but he chooses to interpret it as the former. With an unexpected honesty, he says, “I’ve been dancing for so long, I don’t think I could stop if I tried.”

Lilia seems satisfied with the response. She turns and leaves, just like that, graceful as liquid, presumably to give another student some attention.

Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together and he watches it happen in the mirror. He also watches a small, blond knot of apprehension appear somewhere to his left.

“Hello,” he tries. Yuri’s a bit of a mystery to him - he would chalk it off to his ‘edgy teenage angst’ (Phichit’s words, not his) but Yuuri’s literally just passed twenty years and he was a teenager not too long ago and he’s  _ pretty _ sure he was never like this.

(Phichit promises never to bring up his smokey eyeshadow phase.) (To be more specific, Yuuri was never quite  _ successful  _ at smokey eyeshadow.)

“Hey.” Yuri takes up a position beside him, eyes flitting over to where Lilia has stationed herself casting her threatening shadow over another student.

“How are you?” Yuuri tries again.

Yuri sighs. “Don’t bother. I just want you to know something.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “I want you to know that I  _ know _ .”

Yuuri purses his lips. “Know what?”

A side eye. “I just  _ know _ .” It’s a surprising replica of Lilia’s exact words a few minutes ago, but of course Yuri doesn’t know that. Somehow, it’s more ominous when it comes from a skinny child than it was coming from Madame Lilia Baranovskaya.

“It’s not useful as a scare tactic if I don’t actually know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yuri scoffs, not the least bit undeterred, “I’m not going to say it out loud. It’s my neck on the line, too, not that you can prove it.”

Yuuri switches the position of his arms. “Okay, but that doesn’t make it any more of a threat.”

“I’m not threatening you,” Yuri says, pushing his chin into the air.

“Then what?”

“Blackmail.”

Exasperated, and fighting off a smile, Yuuri rolls his eyes. “That’s still a threat.”

Yuri shuffles his feet. It looks starkly out of place next to Yuuri holding his position and counting under his breath, and the mental comparison must set Lilia’s senses tingling, because she whips her head over to glare a hole into the back of Yuri’s head.

Grumbling, Yuri resumes his practice. Yuuri tries not to laugh at his reluctance.

“How did you get to learning under Lilia, anyway?” Yuuri asks. He knows Yuri is the youngest of the class, but he doesn’t know much beyond that. He tries to imagine what might’ve happened if  _ he _ had been training under Lilia at that age - 

“Her ex-husband came to me at a martial arts competition.”

Yuuri drops his pose. “What?” That’s too many words that he wasn’t expecting  _ at all _ .

“Tae-kwon do. Before I danced. Lilia thought I was  _ wasted potential _ so here I am.”

Yuuri nods, slowly. “O-kay. That’s interesting.”

Yuri harrumphs. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“ _ That _ . You’re judging me.”

“I am  _ not _ . I just said that’s interesting. Because it is.”

“Yeah, right. Fine. Anyway.” He pauses, kisses his teeth for a moment. “I know you know Chris.”

Yuuri hums. First Yuri knows Viktor, and now he knows Chris, too. He’d be surprised, but he’s not. Next, he’ll tell him he knows Sara, probably.

“And Viktor. Did he - say anything?”

Now  _ that’s _ sort of interesting. He sounds… nervous. Which means there’s something to say. “Why? Afraid I know too much?”

Yuri shoots him a narrow-eyed glare. “So he didn’t. But you’re - ”

Lilia’s hand comes down in a sharp smack against the crown of Yuri’s head. Yuri lets out an undignified yelp, and Lilia clicks her tongue at the sound. “Stop your prattling, and start fixing your arms. They’re looking sloppy.”

When Lilia vanishes again, Yuuri prods the younger boy. “I’m what?”

“You’re not in the clear. I told Viktor I thought you were a little suspicious, but I don’t think he was listening. And I would have come to the match last Tuesday if I could have, but I was here that day.” He slides his gaze to lock onto Yuuri’s in the mirror.

Yuuri has gone completely, utterly still. 

_ The match last Tuesday _ .

He - knows? He can’t. But - 

A corner of Yuri’s mouth hitches up. He’s proud of himself. “I heard all about it, though. Don’t get cocky.”

Yuuri’s careful to school his features. He blinks a couple of times to get the shock out of his system, and then he curls his lips and kisses his teeth. “Glad you’re a fan, then. Would you like an autograph?”

Yuri fluffs himself up like a defensive cat. The image is so amusing Yuuri laughs, and it only serves to aggravate Yuri more. “I’m not a  _ fan _ . Don’t flatter yourself. I just want you to know - that. That I  _ know _ .”

Yuuri hums. “Okay. Cool.”

“That’s it? Cool? You don’t have anything else to say?”

Yuuri lifts a shoulder. “Not really. Should I be worried, or something? I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

Yuri considers this. “Good. Just know I’m keeping an eye on you, then.”

 

\--

 

Yuuri settles his body nicely into the throes of his comfortable bed, pillow behind his back and laptop on his folded knees.

Time to write a research paper.

Or, more accurately: time to see how many ways Yuuri can get distracted while simultaneously trying to write a research paper.

That’s better.

Phichit throws the door open without warning, but Yuuri doesn’t even blink. Just keeps scrolling. Pretending he’s not reading a Buzzfeed article.

“We’re going out.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I’ve got a report,” he explains, still scrolling through ‘10 Ways to Nail Effortless Makeup’.

“No, we’re going out. Come on.”

Yuuri bites his lip. “This paper’s due on Monday.”

Phichit sighs. “You know I can see the reflection of your laptop in your glasses, right?”

Yuuri slams the laptop shut immediately. He breathes a mental sigh of relief in having successfully postponed his paper. “Where are we going?”

“Wear the nice jeans.”

Yuuri obliges.

 

Phichit allows him a moment of rest before he ushers Yuuri out the door, typing something into the Maps app on his phone. “Chipotle or Jimmy Johns.”

“I already had dinner - ”

“ _ Chipotle or Jimmy Johns _ .”

Yuuri sighs. “I’m on a diet and you know this - ”

Phichit halts his hunting for directions to place a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Chipotle or Jimmy Johns.”

Yuuri breaks. “Chipotle.”

Phichit, proud, nods. “They’ll meet us there, then.” Phichit stows his phone in his pocket and links his elbow with Yuuri’s, pulling him onto the sidewalk. “Isn’t this nice? The air is clean. No responsibilities, no worries. Just a couple’a friends on the road.”

The air is, in fact, not clean (they’re in Detroit). They do, in fact, have many responsibilities (Yuuri has an urgent research paper to complete). 

“Meet us there? Who’s going to meet us there?”

Phichit tugs them around the corner to where a cramped pair of kind-looking chain restaurants blink at them invitingly.

Two rather tall figures loiter at the corner, one absorbed in a phone with the brightness turned up far too high, and the other leaning lazily against the building. The latter pushes off the surface and waves, dyed-blond hair catching the yellow street light. 

Phichit eagerly waves back.

“Is that…” Yuuri stops dead in his tracks, and does not trip over the crack in the sidewalk. Phichit does not stop, and does trip over the crack, but he catches himself in an impressive manoeuvre. 

“Yes,” Phichit chirps happily. “Chris said they were free tonight.”

Yuuri wonders if Phichit is aware of the size of the traffic jam he’s currently causing in Yuuri’s subconscious - or actually, in his fully aware and functioning conscious.

Phichit turns, and he looks at his best friend, and he winks, and that is when Yuuri knows that he’s been played. Utterly, completely played. What a  _ hoe _ .

A nice, sweet hoe. But also a satanic, heartless hoe. Somehow a pleasant mix.

When they’re close enough for Yuuri to notice how bright Viktor’s eyes look ( _ don’t _ focus on that, please), Chris pushes the door open into the welcoming Chipotle. The smell ignites a small-scale earthquake that emanates impressively from Yuuri’s belly.

Freshly cobbled bowls in hand (and in Yuuri’s case, a nice kid’s meal), Viktor slides into a booth, and Chris and Phichit forcefully shove themselves into the opposite side. Phichit shoots Yuuri a sly smile, and Yuuri returns with a glare that’s interrupted by Viktor tugging on his sleeve. 

“Do you like the sour cream,” he asks, quietly, lips turned into a pout. Yuuri is easily distracted by the pout.

“Sour cream?” He asks dumbly. Yuuri definitely knows what sour cream is, obviously. Who doesn’t know? But here he is, asking anyway.

“Yes.” Viktor points his chin to the dollop of sour cream sitting at the end of his bowl. “I don’t like it, but I forgot to ask them not to put it in. Do you want it?”

Yuuri blinks at it while his mind catches up. In his defense, it’s pretty late out. “Sure.”

Viktor smiles. He seems extremely happy with himself as he transfers the sour cream from his bowl to Yuuri’s.

Yuuri’s phone buzzes, and he eagerly glances at the screen for the distraction.

 

**ChuChu**

Like your spot?

 

Across the table, Phichit rests his chin on the palm of his hand, and blinks innocently at Yuuri.

Yuuri draws a subtle finger across his own throat to symbolize exactly how he feels about his spot.

Thankfully, Viktor fails to notice the gesture.

“Yuuri,” Chris adjusts the round glasses on his face which Yuuri’s sure weren’t there before, “Viktor and I are thinking of going to see a movie next weekend. Think you could make it?”

Next weekend, next weekend -

Yuuri’s throat closes up very suddenly, all pinched off like someone’s pinning him down. Just as quickly, it disappears; doesn’t stop the lights from swimming in his vision. “Next weekend?” He hopes he doesn’t sound hoarse.

Chris nods. Viktor, too, seems intrigued for his answer, and looks up.

“I - I can’t.” He tries for an apologetic look, but he’s not really sure what his face actually looks like at the moment.

Next weekend is his next elimination fight.

Chris - 

Chris probably knows.

Viktor doesn’t.

Can’t.

A surge of fear rises in Yuuri, but not the fear he feels when he lands a jump oddly and feels a twinge in his ankle, and not the fear he feels when Sara demonstrates a takedown on him and he doesn’t know how to land so as not to snap his spine.

A - softer fear. Thinner, maybe.

Fear that  _ Phichit _ knows and apparently  _ Chris _ knows and now even  _ Yuri _ knows - 

But Viktor can’t know. If Viktor knows, Yuuri’s only reprieve will be gone. His chance to pretend he isn’t tallying bruises for stacks of cash just to pay for what his scholarship doesn’t - Viktor doesn’t need to know  _ any _ of that.

Yuuri clears his throat. “I’m busy. You know, school and dance. Takes up a lot of my time.”

_ Don’t say anything don’t say anything don’t -  _

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Chris smiles and returns his attention to his rice. “I think we’ll see Blade Runner. Have you seen it?” This he directs at Phichit.

Yuuri lets out a breath. He doesn’t know what had gotten into him. He is used to the omnipresence of his anxiety - that, he’s all too aware of. But this had been different.

Viktor nudges him with an elbow. Yuuri snaps out of his thoughts, and raises his eyebrows in question, and Viktor responds by pointing to the build-your-own meal in front of him, black beans and chicken sitting untouched.

Yuuri gives a quick smile and picks up his spoon.

“You seem distracted,” Viktor comments.

Apparently he’s not as good at hiding his thoughts as he is at engaging in slightly illegal activity, Yuuri thinks bitterly. How easy would it be to flirt with this angel of a man sitting next to him if he weren’t so worried?

“Just work. Like I said, school and dance.” He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing to be done for that, hm? I’m just waiting for winter break,” he jokes.

Viktor doesn’t seem to think it’s funny. “You’re sure that’s all?”

For someone who’s trying to turn a one-night stand into a two-night stand, Viktor seems awfully interested in Yuuri’s wellbeing.

Yuuri waves it away. “Yes, yes, don’t worry about me.” Then, a poor attempt at completely switching gears, “Plans for the weekend? Other than that movie, of course.”

Viktor imitates Yuuri’s earlier, action, and lifts a nonchalant shoulder. “Nothing happening. It’s peaceful.”

With confidence he somehow pulls from the napkin holder, or his kids’ meal, Yuuri nudges Viktor with his shoulder. “No clubbing?”

Viktor’s lips split into a genuine smile. “Psh,” he waves it away, “no need. Only when I’m bored for company.”

Company. Was that Yuuri? Yes - it definitely was. 

_ Is _ that Yuuri? Now?

He wishes Viktor would just say it - he needs him to just  _ say _ it -

Viktor turns back to cut into whatever conversation Phichit and Chris are having. “So I know how Yuuri and I met,” he says, and Yuuri feels his ears go hot from the memory despite everyone at the table being fully aware of it, “but how do you two know Chris?”

To Phichit’s credit, he doesn’t even bat an eye. “Oh, same club. You two went home, and we got slushies instead. Funny coincidence right?”

Viktor seems surprised. “The same night? That’s almost unbelievable. Funny way life works, I suppose.”

“Mm, small world,” Chris supplies. “You know, my sister met her boyfriend at  _ Grand Prix _ . I just can’t believe they’re still together.”

“You have a sister?” Phichit asks, curiosity ignited.

“Two of them, actually. Adrienne lives in Paris now, though. Hates it.”

Phichit puts a hand over his mouth. “How can she hate Paris?”

Viktor nudges Yuuri as he watches the interaction go on. “Ever been to Paris?”

Yuuri shakes his head.

Viktor’s lips hitch up in a smile, and the symmetry of this man’s face should be  _ illegal _ , Yuuri thinks -

“Pretty different from Detroit, I would say.”

Yuuri laughs, startled. He thought Viktor would tell him how pretty the city was. That’s usually what people say about it.

“Oh, yes. I should hope so. What would be the fun in going otherwise?”

A sly smirk. “French boys.”

Yuuri’s not sure if he should feel anything at that - should he be jealous? He doesn’t quite fit the description, after all. But all he feels is amusement. And perhaps an affection. Some way, somehow, he gets the feeling that Viktor is all talk.

“I’m sure you have plenty of experience with those,” Yuuri jokes.

Viktor nods wisely. Tells Yuuri about the time he once got lost in his hotel, and somehow ended up with his arm in a vending machine. What the story has to do with French boys, Yuuri doesn’t know - but he isn’t complaining.

Yuuri’s phone chimes. A reminder about that paper he still has to do. Past Yuuri apparently has more foresight than Yuuri ever recalls possessing, however impossible that is.

The time reads 8:47.

“Getting late, I guess,” Viktor observes intelligently.

Yuuri tucks his chin to his chest. “I have a paper due. Started it, like, an hour ago.”

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to finish that,” Viktor teases.

Yuuri exaggerates a sigh, standing slowly from the table. “I wish I wanted to, but I don’t. Makes it fifty-three times more difficult to complete it, in my professional opinion.”

“I hope your professional opinion is capable of ghostwriting,” Viktor grins, “I think you might need it.”

 

When they get back to the apartment, Phichit asks if Yuuri had finally managed to get Viktor’s number.

Yuuri smacks himself with a pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> all righty so this appears
> 
> (title from Justin Timberlake's TKO)
> 
> leave a comment maybe? or not?
> 
> [talk to me at my tumblr its-nochillforov!](its-nochillforov.tumblr.com)


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